War Not Easily Won
by effies-scrapbook
Summary: There's a gun in her hands and she's aiming it at the Doctor. / AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead. Strong T.
1. Chapter 1

**War Not Easily Won**

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**Summary:** AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead.  
**Ship:** Rose x Eleven.  
**A/N: **Title based off of the poem "Nobody But You" by Charles Bukowski.

* * *

_( part one; the anomaly and the man who loves her )_

First of all, he thinks, the universe is entirely for him today, because there is a wormhole between the realities and wormholes mean that he can jump universes. The TARDIS immediately takes him to Pete's World without a second thought and he reckons its because she missed her too. He should have known from the start; he was doomed the second he decided to ask Rose to join him aboard to travel the universe. So of course four hundred years wouldn't put a wedge between him and that human of his.

But of course he doesn't think anything through these days, and his impulsive attitude will bite him in the ass eventually; of course, as in all nature of his luck, today is the day his impulsiveness comes around to kick him in the face.

He forgot about the metacrisis.

Well, since four hundred years later in his universe probably means that it is four hundred years later in Rose's, he thinks they're both dead. And visiting a grave is better than being forced to be next to Rose Tyler and not being able to kiss her, touch her, or tell her that he loves her because of her husband in the room. Or rather, because he knows that the metacrisis has done all of those things already.

He'll put flowers on her headstone. That he'd do for sure. And probably talk to her grave about his recent companion, Toby, and how he stayed behind in another timeline to ensure the safety of said timeline and to eventually fall in love with a girl named Josie, too.

But the TARDIS brings him to the inside of a building, and it looks like Torchwood One, but he can't remember. Damn thing won't let him leave, either, without circling back to the same spot. So naturally, he explores.

The building is eerie and dark and silent. The Doctor lurks around, his sonic screwdriver a lantern in the dark. It is night, it looks like the building is closed, and he just bumped into a desk.

Ah. Office building. So probably _not_ Torchwood One.

When he turns around, the lights turn on (lagging motion sensor, it seems) and he sees that it is a cross between an office building and an armory instead.

_What kind of place is this? _He shuffles back to the TARDIS, slightly on edge due to the complete militaristic spin on a common workplace. It looks like warfare, but he hopes it isn't.

Just as he's about to go back in the TARDIS, he spots a name on a golden plaque and he's very sure that it could be her. Rose Smith. He smiles— his metacrisis probably took on his human name from way back when he traveled with Martha. And on a whim, he goes up to the door that the plaque lays on and reaches for the handle. The only thing that stops him is the nagging question of whether or not he is right about this. What if it's not Rose, but instead some woman trying to work peacefully? Then again. What does he have left to lose?

* * *

There's a gun in her hands and she's aiming it at the Doctor.

For what it's worth, there isn't much time to say anything. No, _Rose Tyler?_ No, _please put down the gun, it's me, it's the Doctor, please don't shoot, it's not like you._ Rather, there is time to inhale, and exhale, and wait for the bullet to pierce through his skin, into his heart, and signal the start of the regeneration process like so many times before. It's been a couple hundred years in his eleventh regeneration, after all. He would fancy another look, another Doctor. Maybe he'd be ginger, next.

But he doesn't hear the click of the trigger; he only hears the ticks of the clock overhead. He opens his eyes and he sees her shaking; her breathing is labored and her nose is sniffling and the overall uneasiness sifting through the room makes him unbelievably uncomfortable. The Doctor lowers his hands that were previously raised above his head.

He inhales. Then he takes a step closer.

She cocks the gun in response. "Who are you? How the hell did you get into my office?"

The Doctor guffaws, nervously of course, but laughs all the same. He edges back and looks all over the room. It definitely doesn't look like an office - steel walls, barred windows, a rather beat-up desk and an array of rifles adorning the farthest walls screamed war rather than a homey workplace. Especially concerning his Rose Tyler. He'd have thought an office of hers would be more pink and yellow, not dank and dreary.

"Doesn't look like much of an office to me," he says, his tone a bit nonchalant for either of their liking. He spins around on the balls of his feet and smiles cheekily at her. "Seems a bit too dark for you."

"You don't know me," she bites, pointing the gun closer to him. "It's a bit unwise to piss around with a woman who could very well be the difference between you dying right now or you living another day."

The Doctor clicks his tongue. "Touchy. Go on, shoot. I'm unimportant. Anything I say probably would not make a difference in my fate."

"I'd still like to know exactly who managed to hack their way through the most secured building in London to the most secured room in said building." Rose swallows, eyeing him carefully. "Tell me who you are and I won't kill you. I swear."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"It wouldn't hurt to trust me, mate."

He stares at her, square in the eye. "I'm the Doctor."

There is a minute change in her emotions - from that he can see in her eyes, as plain as day - as she blinks a bit too quickly. But he can feel the sorrow and the hopefulness and the nostalgia all meshed into one big cluster of unraveling sadness when her breathing hitches and her gun falters slightly. Then she is back to the tough Rose Tyler, as metal and cold as her office is and no more the familiar pink-and-yellow human he remembers. Her grip on the gun tightens.

"Prove it."

"Or what?" the Doctor tests her. The water is troubled, but she does believe him. Just a little. And the Doctor can play on just a little.

"Or I'll shoot," Rose spits out. Her eyes narrow when he doesn't speak. And how could he? A woman he's never seen raise a gun to a human is now wielding one and threatening him with it. He's not human, yes, but he damn right looks like one. She raises her voice when she adds, "I'll shoot you, I've shot many before."

No she hasn't. The Doctor doesn't remember her killing anyone - maybe a Dalek or two, but not without reason. Rose doesn't kill. That's not his Rose. _This_ is not his Rose.

"You would have shot me already if you wanted to. You _jest_," the Doctor shouts back. How could he believe her? She still looks so young, and she's _too_ young, in fact, to see the horrors the word murder has to offer. He's about to cross to her when a rippling pain sears up his leg and throughout his body. The whistle of a bullet breaking the barriers of sound rips through his ears as he collapses to the ground, his hands making way to his fresh wound and his lips struggling to keep shut. He makes a noise of pain, barely whimpering, "You.. you _shot_ me."

"And I didn't bat an eye, did I, pretty boy? Prove to me you're the Doctor or I'll - I'll kill you," Rose snaps, clicking the gun again and aiming it at his left heart.

_Where a human's would be_, the Doctor thought to himself.

"You don't believe me?" he gasps out, adding more pressure to his gaping wound. The pain is unbelievable, but it isn't just the gunshot wound. His Rose Tyler, who had told him all those years ago that she would travel to the end of the universe and back with him, and would never question him when she shouldn't, now doubts him.

He feels like God, then, but he isn't benevolent.

"Give me a reason to believe anyone anymore," she says bitterly. She spits out the words, and there is rage and anger in her eyes.

He wouldn't be surprised if he looks just as cross as she does.

"Because I asked you to come with me, _twice_," he fumes. He shuts his eyes closed as he feels another bout of agony shoot up his leg. He clenches his teeth, bringing his knees closer to his chest. "And you should trust me above everyone else because I know you, Rose Tyler, and you love me, and _God_, I love you too, and that's why I've been waiting for a gap between the universes to get back to you one last time. You don't have to come along - you've got the metacrisis - but... how many humans can do this?"

And in the midst of his anger, he lightens. It shaves off years of his life, but if this doesn't convince her, there's nothing left to do. His leg glows gold, and the blood and pain disappears. That's enough for her to know that it's really him and not some impostor like she may have believed. He looks back up when he wiggles his leg a bit to shake the feeling of quasi-regeneration off of him. She didn't look happy. Not what he expected, but she looks like she believes him, and that's good for him.

He jumps back up — on the way, a snide _"Christ, Rose, took ten years off my life to prove that its me"_ falls from his lips — and smiles. But then she staggers back and the gun falls to the floor. She covers her mouth with a shaking hand, and her eyes—hazel in its prime, the color of the clove of summer and autumn—widen like they've seen a ghost. She starts to cry, then, and with her back now against the wall, she slides to the floor. Her legs are sprawled and her hands are trying to make sense of things as they run over her face and her hair and her eyes; for the first time in quite a while, the Doctor does not know the right thing to say.

"Rose..."

His voice is shaky and it flutters and screams movement all around — and yet, he cannot will himself to move. He stands like a fool and his insides tear up and beat like hammers against his skin to make him move, _goddamnit_, because when a woman you care for cries you just don't stand there.

"You're _dead_," she screams, looking at him with eyes like fire. "_You're fucking dead_, you can't be alive, you just can't! I saw you die, I _watched_ you die by River Song, and you're _dead_!" She gathers her head between her knees and wails like a mad woman. She whispers, and he barely catches it, "You're not real. Impossible."

And then he wonders who this Rose Tyler came out to be.

He steps closer — as close as he can without smothering her — and kneels, his hands resting on his knees as he chokes out, "I'm _real_, Rose. Please. Look at me."

"If I look at you, you'll disappear, and I can't have you disappear on me again," she says, her words caught in between rolling sobs.

"Rose," he says, her name sweet like a prayer on his tongue. He takes her cheek with one hand, and he chuckles when she leans into it, and smiles when she grips his wrist with light, delicate fingers. His other hand travels to her shoulder, his thumb running circles and patterns and Gallifreyan lullabies on her skin. He whispers (and wonders if his words make their way to her ears) softly, "Where's my metacrisis?"

"Dead," she says tersely. She sniffles, and her grip on his wrist tightens.

"For how long?"

She pulls on his wrist so he lets go of her cheek, and he watches her eyes revert back into a soldier-like expression. She looks right through him, but her voice still falters when she says, "How long have I been gone?"

"From our universe?" he asks, and she nods, her hands finding their way onto his knees. "Four hundred years, three months, twenty six days, and two minutes," he recites with a smile, a laugh hidden in his words. She smiles, nods and laughs and nods until she starts crying again.

"Rose, my sweet, sweet Rose Tyler," he says fervently, her face now in between his hands. His thumbs brush away tears as they fall hopelessly onto him, and onto her; his eyes search hers and oh, those beautiful hazel eyes that made him believe in god above everything else, were empty, and cold, and so, so sad. His voice is cracked, too, when he asks her, "Why are you crying?"

"Because," she says, "It's been _so_ long..."

"Not as long as it has been for me."

"Oh, Doctor." And here, she laughs again. Bitterly, first, then sadly. "My Doctor, you've found your way back to me."

"I found you," he agrees, and presses his forehead against hers, his nose against the cool, tear slicked surface of her skin. She smells just like he remembers: like talcum, and almost like roses, too. He feels her lips this close to his, and he oh so desperately needs her, needs her contact like winter needs the cold, like summer needs the sun.

"Doctor."

His name slips against his breath, and her fingers skim over his gooseflesh on his neck and she laughs again. But this time it is real, and human, and it is Rose Tyler after all these years and she's so goddamn close to him. His hearts flutter as her tongue licks the bottom of her lip and he swears he can feel it too. He can taste it and it is a taste he's missed for hundreds of years. He whimpers, his voice stolen by the very woman who stole his hearts all those years ago.

"How was that sentence going to end?" And oh God, her voice is a tease. It is the sound of a million hushed curses and blessings all mixed into one stirring question.

"My metacrisis should have told you that," he manages to say as her hand that held his flush travels down his arms, his chest, and _oh god his trousers_, _too_ and — he muffles a gasp when her fingers wrap around his waistband to tug him closer.

"I want to hear it."

There are tears again. He is unsure if it is his or hers or both, but in the grand scheme of things it is irrelevant, and he really, truly could not care less. In under any other circumstance, he would be crying, too.

"I love you," he says, and he means it. God, he means it, and her lips meets his and there's thunder and howling and it's the storm and the wolf dancing around each other once again. His hands find their way to the nape of her neck, his fingers dragging through her hair as she opens his hothothot mouth against his. He can taste her smile, his tongue sweeping over hers as she falls back against the wall. Her fingers wrap around his collar, pulling him towards her as she whispers _tell me again_ against his skin.

He'll say it a million times but it will never be enough.

"I love you," he breathes and he dips into her kiss, relishing in the way she tastes like strawberries and whiskey. She's been drinking for awhile, and she's been lonely for awhile. He loves the way it feels on his tongue. How she feels. How she is. He trails kisses along her jawline, his tongue darting to sample _herherher_ and he can't, _oh he can't_ get enough of her. "I love you," he says, and she moans as he finds his way down her neck.

"Would you love me if I told you I've killed people?" she asks - barely, mind you, because he reckons she can't concentrate as he's busy sucking on her pulse, practically devouring her quickening heartbeat.

"I've killed more, my own," he says, his hands finding her jutting hip bones, his thumb pads smoothing the edges of her skin. There are a myriad of scars, he feels, and the way her skin folds over the jagged flesh nerves him. Then he feels fingers over his and she kisses his head, a murmur buried in her groans, "It's nothing, Doctor."

But it is something, and it is something that bothers him. So he leans up so that he's hovering over her, his forehead pushing against hers and her lips centimeters from his, and his hearts beat quicker when she brushes the back of her hand against his cheek. "What happened?" he asks, and his hands ghost up her shirt to count the steps to her heart, and there are too many bones he can feel under his tips for this to be healthy. "Tell me," he growls, and he wants to know more than anything, why the change? _What happened?_

"War," she tells him, her nails dragging through the curves where his neck becomes shoulder. "Life is messy," she says, her eyes fluttering closed as he presses his lips to her navel. Her words are shaky when she enunciates, "Very messy."

"How messy?" he asks.

"I'm an old woman, Doctor," she whispers as he slips her shirt over her head and throws it to the side. "I've killed people. _I kill people_. You don't want this."

He slides over her and unbuttons her jeans, not minding her words because he knows. She tastes ancient, but that is a conversation for another time. For now he wants her and only her, always her, and he smirks when her fingers work down his shirt.

He devours her. Mind, body, soul and her entirety are all taken apart and put back together by him, only him. Each part of her he tries to have, tries to love, but there are scars and there are bones and this Rose Tyler is both the same and different in almost every way. She is lovely, but he fears that she is not his to love anymore. It's reckless, what they're doing, what _he's_ doing. And as he presses his hips into hers and listens to her whisper oaths and swears and words he knows are French, he thinks that there are more important things to mind than remembering which part of her body bends at his touch. But then her back arches and his nerves snap and synapses explode and he pants out her name and everything suddenly becomes minimal.

Yes, he thinks, there are far more critical things at hand. But right now, he is on the floor with Rose Tyler, and she is dressing up and he is catching his breath. There are smiles on both their faces, and that, he thinks, is a moment he's missed.


	2. Chapter 2

**War Not Easily Won**

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**Summary:** AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead.  
**Ship:** Rose x Eleven.  
**A/N: **The story gets kind of vulgar here. One of my favorite cuss words is the f-word, apparently. Also! Thank you so much for all of the lovely reviews! This is the second DW story I've written, so here goes nothing, I guess. This fic has a mind of its own, because I definitely did NOT expect it to end up here. Truth be told, it was supposed to end last chapter. But I couldn't help myself! So enjoy. :D

* * *

_( part two; beer and arguments )_

It's a bit odd, the moment after. Rose thinks they ought to be still, and cuddling, or something like that. She remembers that— her back against a chest, arms around her middle, lips on her neck. But that was thing with regular blokes, human men with a taste for stillness. The Doctor is a man of movement, she realizes, and he of all living things is not one to continue being intimate after surrendering himself to a mere human girl.

_Well, not quite human anymore_, she muses as she stands back up. He hands her her shirt and she is amused at the way he looks at her in wonderment. Fifty years of not doing that with a man and she's _still _got it.

Rose has to laugh at that—a woman who doesn't look a day over twenty-five reflecting on the times of half a century ago. There's something deeply wrong with that image, surely.

She rolls her shoulders back, her previously stiff muscles relaxed from her release. Yawning (because even her immortality couldn't take away her post-sex sleepiness), she steals a look at the Doctor. He is shirtless (_not a sight unpleasant_, she adds to her thoughts) and he is staring at the rifles on the walls. Still sitting down, he cracks his neck and opens his mouth to speak. He closes it after a beat.

"Fancy a drink?" she asks, walking over to her desk to fix one for herself. He nods soundlessly, still scrutinizing the guns. Laughing, she bends down to the mini-fridge below her desk. "Beer okay? That's all I got."

"That's fine," he says absently.

_Better be_, she thinks as she digs her way for the last two bottles. It was John's favorite brand. She never liked it herself, but even a hundred and fifty years since his passing and she could not bring herself to stop purchasing a six-pack to keep in her stock.

The thought of John sobers her. One hundred fifty years is a very long time. Love lost is never gone, but then again, is he not the same man as the Doctor here? That was always the debate inside her, whether they are one or different people. Regardless, she came to love John, and she was happy for that. _Is _happy for that, she corrects.

Sighing, Rose closes the fridge and walks back over to the Doctor, who, not to her surprise, is still staring on the wall of rifles. Rose places the beer in his hand, waiting for him to break his trance. It did, thankfully, and he lifts his eyes to smile at her. "Thanks," he says. She nods briefly, popping the cap off the bottle and letting the bitter smell of the alcohol waft through the air. Drinking is something she's rather fond of, but she could do without the stink.

"Come, sit," The Doctor says after a moment, patting the spot next to him on the floor. She sets herself down right beside him, and as she does, he lets out a huff. "Tell me what you think."

"Of what?" She's slightly worried that he's talking about oh, the guns lining her beloved office, and maybe, just maybe, his disapproval of her change. It's a long story to tell, and she's not sure if she's ready to explain everything right away.

But the smile spreading across his face assures her that it's nothing wrong. "Of the bow tie, of course!"

Ah, yes, that rather quizzical thing he's seemingly fond of. "I love it," she says, grinning too. She really does - makes him look more brilliant than he actually is. "Rather fitting, though."

"How so?"

"It completes your look of a Cambridge professor," she says, nudging him in the rib with an elbow.

"Well, _I _think it's quite ravishing," he defends, puffing out his chest. "Cool, even," he prompts, lowering his voice as leans towards her.

"Oh, I do too," she laughs, a real laugh, rolling her head onto his shoulder. "_Very_cool, indeed."

He laughs too, bowing his head as his shoulders shake. "Oh Rose Tyler. Rose Tyler, how I've missed you."

There's a silence, then, and then they both drink at the same time. It's awkward enough with the given circumstances, but the tension here is just too much. She folds her hands in her lap and bites her lip — for all she knows, the silence is telling. And it's probably telling her that whatever they did was a mistake, but that isn't exactly what she wants to hear right now. Mistakes are second nature with her, but anything done with the Doctor — metacrisis or not — shouldn't be one.

The Doctor clears his throat after a few sips. "How long?"

She looks at him; he's staring straight ahead, unseeing rather than focusing. She swallows. "Little over two hundred years. Two-ten." His jaw clenches and the guilt on his face is almost palpable. She reverts her stare back to her shoes, her fingers reaching out to touch her laces.

"Been long for you too, I assume. Longer, maybe," she says, filling up the silence. Sighing, she lets her hands fall back into her lap. "But it feels longer than it actually is. Two hundred, two ten? Feels like a thousand lifetimes, you know."

She suddenly realizes that there's two living, breathing paradoxes in the room. Old, ancient people — the stuff of legends, really — stuck in the bodies of the youth. How damned, they are. And maybe she's not as damned as the Doctor, but she sure could give him a run for his money.

"How old are you, Rose?" His voice is gentle, not prodding. She wonders if it's a question to be answered.

"Two hundred thirty-five," she says after awhile. She hears his breathing hitch and she feels guilt settle at the bottom of her stomach. Of course he think it's his fault.

"You're old," he says simply, taking in a long sip of beer. She knows it's an observation, not an insult, and that he only does this when he doesn't understand something completely. But it still hurts. She doesn't want to be _this_old. If anything, death is very welcome.

"Yep," she nods slowly, popping the 'p.'

"Have you... er... died?"

"Yes," she replies. "Five times...on accident." She adds the last bit with hesitance. She's not sure if should have mentioned it, but then again, what does she have left to lose at this point? Certainly not the Doctor - she's used to losing him, if anything.

"Well, death is almost always on accident," he muses, humor in his voice. Rose contradicts this in her mind, and she's about to say something about it when the Doctor cuts her off. "You haven't...?"

"Only once," she tells him, and she closes her eyes as she sees images of that night flash before her. A low point of her life she'd rather not relive, not even for the Doctor. She takes a long sip of the beer, letting the bitter rest over her tongue. "It's nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"It's _nothing_," she stresses, slightly annoyed.

"Nothing's just _nothing_, Rose Tyler," he counters; getting up from his seat, he continues, "Those scars on your back aren't nothing, they're _something_... they're marked tissue on the skin, from where trauma has occurred and... those are from alien, ancient, _future_ torture devices, and I know them, I've _seen_them before."

The Doctor's voice rises as he turns so that he looks straight at her. There's agony in his eyes and rage in his words, and if she hadn't been so accustomed to it, it would have scared her. "Those aren't_ NOTHING,_ROSE," he yells, his hands clenched into fists and his jaw tightening in anger. "You shouldn't have—"

"We're not talking about this right now, Doctor," Rose declares right then, standing up abruptly. She stalks back to her desk, setting her drink on the top as she exhales. She really didn't need this right now. "I have a load of work to do and you're not helping me by trying to talk about something that frankly, I don't need to talk about right now!"

Rose closes her eyes and winces. There's a sharp pain in her temple and she tries to subdue it — anger doesn't help her migraines in any way. "Look, Doctor... we'll talk later this week..."

"I don't have later this week. I have three days until I have to leave," the Doctor says softly. He crosses his arms flat against his chest, walking towards her. His anger had seemingly subsided, but it's only temporary. Oh, she of all people knows the limits of a grieving Time Lord.

"I've come to ask you along."

Ask her along? She laughs at that. Oh, no he didn't, she's sure of it. The Doctor doesn't come back, not for anyone. Not even for Rose Tyler, an unlucky human girl who'd be happier six feet under than where she is now. No, he's only asking her along because it's convenient for him, because he's lonely now. She turns, fuming as she spews, "Go home, Doctor. Go back to the TARDIS."

"Rose-" he starts, reaching for her arm.

"I'm not going to drop everything for you anymore! I've got actual responsibilities, Doctor, and I can't just_ leave_ in three days," she says, exasperated by now. She laughs humorlessly as she shrugs off his hand. "Not even for _you_. You don't really expect that, do you?"

She waits to jump on his reply. When he doesn't answer and averts his gaze to the side, she shakes her head incredulously. "God, you're such a bloke! You think fucking me and confessing your love would be enough to convince me to leave home?"

"This isn't your home, Rose."

"You're in no place anymore to tell me where home is," she snaps. The audacity!

"Your home is the TARDIS, not the war-infested hell-hole this place is. You don't need to stay in the place that's caused you so much pain, Rose, just..._please_, come along," he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper.

He looks at her intently, but she doesn't give him a response. Instead she walks past him and gathers other articles of clothing they've abandoned along the way. He follows her, clearly not giving up.

"Don't let me lose you," he says quietly, turning her around.

"Too late," she mutters, shoving past him and taking his drink along with her.

"It's not too late, Rose, please—"

That's it. That's her breaking point. She turns on her heels and throws his shirt onto the ground. "You know what? Fuck you - how dare you try to guilt me? Don't you think I missed you too? That everyday was a goddamn marathon without you? God, Doctor, you think you're the only one who can be in pain? The only one who is allowed to miss people in this universe? I'm sorry I didn't kill the entirety of the human race and a thousand more on top of that, but damn you, you pretentious alien, I know how it feels to lose people I love. I know how it feels to watch people wither and die, and let me tell you, it's the worst feeling in the world."

She takes in a deep breath, reeling in from her sudden outburst. Tears dribble down her cheeks as she continues, "So don't you do this to me. Don't try to egg me into saying yes, I'm going to come with you and travel until the end of life as we know it because I'm not going to do it." She shakes her head, laughing at the irony of it all. "But you know that I know that I want to. God, I want to go with you. Drop all this.. this shit and jump into the TARDIS we go. But I can't. Oh my God, I can't do that, Doctor, you have to understand."

Rose braves a good look at him and his eyes are blank and so _so _sad. But dear heavens, he's got to know that she wants to be back with him more than anything else. More than mortality. More than death.

She's just not good for him anymore.

"Rose..."

So she tries, oh does she _try_, to antagonize herself. To remove herself from his attachments. Seething, she starts to yell at him again, "God, Doctor! Don't you see? There are guns everywhere. I bloody shot you for chrissakes, and I've told you I've killed countless people." She releases an angry breath, raging like a madwoman. "I am not your Rose Tyler anymore, and I'm not going to be her no matter how much you think you can fix me. Because two hundred years without you is enough time for me to change," she screams at him, her words piercing and punctuating. Her voice cracks as she continues, "I have to be_ here_. I can't be with you."

Her heart falls to her stomach when she sees that his eyes are misted over. Crying is a weakness, especially for Time Lords. John told her that, once, and it pains her to see that the Doctor has been reduced to this.

She says nothing more, though. No word of comfort. No apology. She's still mad at him, after all.

"Tell me why you can't," he murmurs, turning so his back faces her.

"Doctor—"

"TELL ME BLOODY WHY," he screams suddenly, angrier than she's ever seen him be. So this is the Oncoming Storm in all his glory. His fury bubbles over as he runs his fingers through his hair, pacing. "Help me understand you."

"It's complicated!" she says sharply. Pointing at herself, she says, "I don't even understand it myself!"

And it's true. Sort of. Time has taught her that some things are better left in the dust, and while she has an inkling of understanding (because how could not?) she doesn't know why. Just how. Just _what_.

"I'm clever!" he replies, clearly exhausted. He walks towards her desk and leans over, his palms flat on the surface as he exhales slowly. "Very clever."

"Oh, and _I'm_ not?" she rebuts, crossing her arms.

"Shut it, you know what I mean...You're_ human_!"

"Not anymore!" she bites back all too quickly, throwing the empty bottle of beer on the floor in anger.

He stiffens when hears her say this. She notices. Closing her eyes, she curses inwardly — damn it, she hadn't meant to tell him that. She didn't want to reveal anything to him, not right now, not tonight. Too fucking late, then. So she takes in a deep breath and walks over to where he is.

"I'm... I'm not human, I have this _thing_, this adjustment to my DNA that permits me to live without dying or aging, for that matter," she explains, her words slow and soft. She gestures her hand to herself, continuing, "I can think faster than most. My brain makes more connections at three times the speed of the average human. I can read the emotions of people, what they're thinking, what they will be, what they were."

Rose laughs then, bitterly and boastfully. She's on the verge of tears, explaining everything to him, and it pains her to recount confessions. But maybe he could help her. And these days, she thinks to herself, she lives on maybes.

"I create myself, Doctor," Rose resumes. "I die, and I piece all my cells, every tiny atom back together. I am the Bad Wolf."

"Impossible," the Doctor says softly. "I took it out of you. The Vortex in you is gone—my last self was proof of that."

Rose is behind him now, standing off to the side. He's peering at the paperwork littered on the desk, his breathing now slow and steady. She whispers, her words like gun fire, "The Vortex changed my genetic information before you could take it all out. The last remnants of Huon particles don't exist only in the heart of the TARDIS anymore...combined with the Vortex, I guess, it just latched onto the helices of my DNA and stayed there." She reflects it briefly, remembering the words John had told her long ago. "You took out most of them, yeah. But not all. And my body survived on the few, then now, it makes more to sustain itself... I can't die even if I wanted to."

She crosses her arms and allows him time to take this in. This new him... he's not like the rest, that's sure. And he looks young,_ so_ young, _too_ young, but Rose knows better than that. Silhouetted in that playful, boyish exterior of his is a man scorned, man in pain, mad man with a past too dark for many. She knows the feeling, unfortunately.

Without thinking, she grabs his hand. Thankfully, he doesn't let go.

"I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head.

"For what?"

"For what happened to you."

"It's really not your fault."

"Seems like it is," he murmurs.

Rose has to laugh. "You think everything is your fault." She gives his hand a slight squeeze, then let's go. He turns his head at that, his eyes mirroring hers — questioning, wondering. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it after a moment's thought.

"I can't come with you," she says once more, "because I'm not the same. Never the same."

"Try me," he tells her, reaching for her hands. "I promise you I can give you a run for your money."

A silence simply because she doesn't want to fight anymore.

"Thought you were dead," she says to change the subject, grasping both of his hands in hers. Their fingers intertwine, skin brushing skin so softly. She smiles. "Lake Silencio. River Song. The impossible astronaut."

"You didn't watch closely," he points out. "The Teselecta. My tricks up my sleeve, Rose Tyler, that's what you ought to watch for."

"Ah, see, I stopped watching your world when I thought you died. Didn't seem worth it."

The Doctor pulls her in closer, his fingers releasing hers only to travel to her hips. He drags her in closer, his voice low as he murmurs, "Always worth it, mm?"

"Yes, you are always worth it," she confesses her eyes locked on his. Something flashes in them, something crossed between delight and bemusement. She drowns in pale emerald. And for the first time in centuries, she thinks she melts under his stare.

"You haven't smiled in ages, before today," he notes, studying her carefully. She squirms under his sudden scrutiny; must he always be so keen to dissecting everything? He catches her discomfort and softens. "No laugh lines when I saw you. Care to tell me why?"

"No reason to smile when there's an ongoing war outside," she hums, nodding to the guns on the wall.

"Ah, yes, war," the Doctor repeats, eyes narrowing at the word. "Forgot you mentioned that. Got any war stories for me, Rose Tyler?"

Rose nods with a smirk; oh does she have war stories for him. Violent bits, things with blood and sweat caked in the cracks where she fell apart but came back together again. Oh, stories that ended with a bang and stories that ended in a whimper. She has war stories, loads of them, but she doesn't know if she's ready to face her demons yet. Because bombs still whistle and drums still beat to the sound of battle. And sometimes, she still stops to cry because_ fuck it_, she is an old woman who should not have had to fight for her life.

She thinks she should tell him this herself, but she can't bear to. So she takes the coward's way out instead.

Rose takes a hand of his and pulls him to the other side of the desk — her voice hushed, she says, "Let me tell you the story of Torchwood One."

Pulling a journal out and plopping it in front of them, Rose cranes her neck to find a particular file out of the mess of papers in her desk. Yellow, with a pink post-it... damn it, where is it?

"Looking for this?" the Doctor asks, handing her the aforementioned file. She must look confused, as he adds quickly, cheekily, "Gotta watch your mental blocks around me, Tyler."

"Rude, and still not ginger, I see," Rose teases, giving the file to him to hold.

"But! Still foxy, and I think I'm pretty cool."

Rose hums in agreement, running her hand on the ripped and torn journal cover. Laden in these tattered pages are all her secrets, all her stories she has to tell. It is the only thing that is entirely hers. Inhaling deeply, she mulls over this decision she has to make. Inside is her story, the Bad Wolf's. It isn't something she wants to share... but she has to. If she wants the Doctor to know the full consequences of being around her, with her, this is it. This is the worst of Rose Tyler, and he deserve to know.

As if reading her mind, the Doctor wraps an arm around her waist and brings her closer. She feels lips on her shoulder, and she shudders. Tears are falling already, but there's nothing to do about that now. He makes her crumble with kiss. That alone is dangerous for the both of them.

"Nothing will make me stop loving you, Rose," he tells her, lacing through her fingers with his. "Not the darkest of you, not the lightest. Nothing."

"It's not pretty," she says suddenly, turning in his arms. She hands him the journal and sighs. "It's definitely nothing I want to read. But you... you have to know. And any questions, anything you need to talk to me about, I'm an open book. I might not like it... but tough," she says with a shaky smile.

"Are you sure?" he asks, holding up the journal and the file.

"Yes," she nods.

He looks at her intently, then puts them down and hugs her, his arms enveloping her entirely. She laughs with tremors running through her, her face falling into his chest. Settling into his warmth, she feels safer than she's been in years. Right here, in his arms, she can die the most painful death and come back to life with a smile.

"Let's go somewhere safe to... read this," he mutters into her hair. "In the TARDIS, yeah? Come along, Rose."

And so she does.

* * *

**A/N:** Ooh. Now, next chapter might be a bit of a brute to write, considering it's going to be mainly the Doctor sifting through her past via the journal and files. But... we'll see where my muse takes us. Don't forget to leave a review - I thrive on them! Now... I should go ahead and sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**War Not Easily Won**

* * *

**Summary:** AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead.  
**Ship:** Rose x Eleven.  
**A/N: **What do you call a chapter that feels like a filler but is really important? Sighhhh. I don't really like it, cause it feels so rough to me, and I've edited it so much. Bleh. Whatever. ENJOY! :D

* * *

_( part three; the journal )_

The Doctor parks the TARDIS in space. Quite literally, they are floating around somewhere in the galaxy; it is his decision, of course. He wants a sense of privacy for the two of them tonight.

After a cuppa, Rose decides to go up to bed (her old room, as it is) and rest. Her clock is ticking on 3 AM, and she tells him she has a meeting at eight that she couldn't miss. Meeting for what, he doesn't ask, and while he could've argued that the TARDIS is a time machine and could allow her to sleep in and still make it hours early, he doesn't. Instead, he lets her sleep.

Besides. He doesn't want her around when he starts to read up on her, anyway. It'd be awkward, especially for her, and while the two of them have been through so much, he doesn't want to subject her to being uncomfortable because of him. This is a touchy subject, after all. It_ is_ her life they're talking about here, and she practically handed him her every twist and turn, up and down, black and white and grey for him to exploit.

Basically, she gave him her permission to invade her privacy. He's not going to take that lightly.

Soon, he'll start on reading. Soon.

**0o0o0**

Soon becomes hours. He's in his study, staring at the cracked, leather-bound book like it's infested with disease and held his greatest fears. Maybe it does, and that's the scary part. He doesn't want to read it — not if it means having to live her long, long life, not if it means having to stand in her place as her world shattered and shattered again.

But she wants him to read it, and at this point, he'll do anything for her. Anything for Rose.

His hands like lead, the Doctor flips the book open to the first page. Dust particles dance in the air as he smooths out the crinkled pages; in a neat scrawl is Rose Tyler's first entry, dated over 200 years ago. He squints, sighing inwardly — human women, _always_ bent on writing with a microscopic pen.

_13 July 2006._

He realizes, then, that this was written only days after the first goodbye in Norway. It recounted events they both had lived before, each word packed with heavy nostalgia and longing. He feels as if someone had just stabbed him in the stomach — in those days following up to this first entry, what was Rose doing? What was she feeling? It killed him to think of her suffering, without him, _because_ of him.

The Doctor is unsettled by the thought of it all and skims the page. His eyes linger on the last few parts of the entry, where ink was smeared and dark spots were clumped on the bottom of the page. Tears from two hundred years ago - how about that? He cringes at the image of Rose crying in her room, bent over the journal in a fit of sobs. He imagines Jackie in the doorway, or on the bed, with a bottle of wine or a bowl of soup or hell, _both_, watching her daughter break down and knowing there is absolutely nothing she could do about it.

He imagines his Rose sucking in those sobs to write the last sentences as neat as she can before she allowed herself to cry into her mum's lap.

_I think that if I should wake up any day now and find that this was indeed all a dream, I might be happy in the long run. Because at least missing him — won't be real, not really. I'd rather be bonkers in the head for falling in love with an imaginary friend than knowing that I fell in love without knowing the end of it. God..._

He closes the book right then.

Nope. He can't do this alone. First page in, and he can barely stand it without wanting to kick himself or kiss her to oblivion.

Why must he do this? What is the purpose of him trying to unravel the mystery by himself? Why can't she tell him herself, spare him the pain of having to read it raw? He sighs as he puts his face in his hands, grasping at the lose tendrils of his hair in frustration. But perhaps he isn't being fair to her. If Rose Tyler...

God, if _Rose Tyler_ can't look him in the eye and tell him her story, it must be horrid.

The Doctor exhales and tries again. The book lays open in front of him, taunting him, and he swears he can hear her sobs burning through the pages. A bit too zealously, he flips through the first dozen pages, seeing as they were mindless entries filled to the brim with angry, depressive words. Words like _abandonment _and _hate_ and _lost_ and the one that cut him deepest — _love_.

The journal skips ahead three months, and on the sixth month anniversary of Canary Wharf, only seven words claims the page: _I don't want to love him anymore_.

Three weeks later comes the next entry, and as if in response to the last, it simply said, _I still do_.

The Doctor feels his hearts drop. Did she really feel like he condemned her to eternal suffering? She wrote as if loving him was a burden to be carried. As if it was something she wanted _gone_. Then again, would he be lying if he said that he didn't feel that way, either? He's never been so quick to forget a death like Rose's. When he saw Amy the day after he regenerated, he had pushed Rose so far away from his mind that he was convinced that he had stopped loving her for the longest time. River was only proof of that conviction.

"Great, _more_ guilt," he grumbles to himself as he turns to the next journal entry. Pages had been ripped out in a hurry, it seems to him, for jagged remnants of parchment are all that's left of about fifteen entries. The next one's date read May 2007 — almost a year after Canary Wharf.

His fingers smooth over the frayed edges of the paper. Almost a year's past for her in this entry. It read nothing more than Torchwood business — meeting notes and doodles of an odd-looking contraption that looks vaguely familiar. In a matter of months, Rose had buried herself in mountains of work, for the next dozen or so entries were solely about Torchwood work.

_Must be a coping mechanism_, the Doctor notes. He reads it all intently, fascinated by her brilliant conclusions and terse deductions. _That's my Rose_, he thinks proudly. From what the Doctor gathers in Rose's frazzled, sporadic notes, Pete was still the director of Torchwood, and Rose had been an acting manager of the London branch in place of an ailing Sarah Callan, the official manager who had fallen ill with a terminal disease.

That must explain all the notes on important conferences with other high-ranking officials in the world — Rose had met the President of the United States in July of 2007, and later that month the Chairman of NATO. Other than simple notes on their personalities for "future reference," as she put it, nothing greatly important was discussed. In fact, it seems to the Doctor, Rose's time as acting branch manager was just a polish-and-fix job. The only major thing she did for Torchwood in her time as manager was clean up the organization's alliance with UNIT and brief NATO on updated safety measures concerning alien attack.

Standard work, if you asked the Doctor.

Still - her notes on the study of inter-dimension travel, these equations and sketches - these were all hers. Sure, she must've had help on the maths stuff, but for her to figure out all these concepts by herself? That is_ impressive_.

Ah.

She was building the dimension cannon at this point in time.

For months, the journal steadily filled its pages with sciences and maths. Nothing personal, no confessions, no secrets. Theories, yes, but no stories.

The Doctor isn't bored with it, but he wonders how she was feeling, then. Good? Bad? He'd have to ask her about that one.

Then, after perhaps hours of reading her scientific findings, he comes across a page that didn't start with the limits of the chaos theory but rather a time, a date, and an anecdote to follow. Interested, the Doctor sits up straight to properly read it, much unlike his previous way of propping his feet up on the desk and treating the journal like a college textbook.

_6 January 2008_

_The first test didn't run well. The Dimension Cannon worked fine, as it took me to the Doctor's World (that's what we're calling it, I guess) - just didn't take me to where I wanted to be. Instead of bring me to London, 2008, it took me to Luxius-5 sometime in the future. Didn't turn out in my favor either... ended up getting shot at, but I'm fine, my team's fine, and the cannon is fine, too. Just a flesh wound, is all. _

_The doctors are threatening to take away my journal in the name of sleep, but I'm fine. I'm awake, and I want to go back to work. This damn cannon needs to be fixed before it's too late for both of these worlds. Donna Noble... someone's gotta go back soon._

The Doctor reads on. Pages and pages go on, detailing failed missions concerning the Dimension Cannon and Torchwood's attempts to shuttle Rose's team to the correct time and place - London, 2008, somewhere in the Medusa Cascade. Each attempt brought them closer, the Doctor notices, but there must be something wrong. And rather like a child desperate to guess the ending of a story, the Doctor boggles his brain to figure out exactly what is the problem before he gets to it.

It's like a mystery novel, Rose's life at this point. All these trials and errors and discoveries and twists - the Doctor wonders what's next.

_18 May 2008_

_I must travel alone. And I have about one attempt left before the cannon falls apart. If there is a God out there - help me._

Ah, and there it is.

**0o0o0**

The date on the next page gives him shivers. It is exactly one day after the Medusa Cascade incident. Exactly one day after he left his metacrisis with her on Bad Wolf Bay, destined never to see her again for four hundred years too long.

It is not in his nature to regret, but yes, there are things - few and far between, of course - that he would take back. And to this day, he wonders: _is this a regret? Would I change what I did?_

For years now, he's questioned the reasoning behind leaving Rose and his metacrisis _(John, was it?)_ to fend for themselves and with each other in a brave new world. And it has always come down to the bare bones fact that someone needed to soften the metacrisis, for he was too raw too be a full Time Lord but too unforgivably headstrong to be human.

Rose had done to him exactly what his metacrisis needed. She fixed him.

For what it's worth, it was necessary, but in retrospect, it was a bit unfair. Then again, the entire situation he was put in was unfair, so there's that.

The Doctor sighs. There will never be a moment where he is happy with how the entire situation turned out. Just when he thinks he's gotten up and moved on - because after four hundred goddamn years, how could he not? - she comes back. Rose comes back and everything changes. Of course he's always loved her - like he will always love Sarah Jane, Donna, Martha, Amy and Rory - but...

No. Now's not the time to be reflecting on this, anyway. What he's doing is trying to put off the inevitable - reading Rose's reaction to the metacrisis. He doesn't understand why he's so agitated by the thought of Rose and John because he was the puppeteer in that entire situation. He made Rose and John be together, it was all of his doing, and there is no one to blame but himself for his unhappiness.

Well, it wasn't like he had a choice in that either.

"God damnit,_ focus_," the Doctor chides himself, fixing his eyes back on the journal.

**0o0o0**

_6 July 2008_

_He wants to be called John, publicly. It's not ... well, seems a bit common, don't you think? For the Doctor? You'd think he'd want something a bit more interesting. Like Alonso - ha! I'm sure he has his reasons, though, and he's probably going to - no, scratch that, will - tell me later. _

_Last night, we talked. No bullshit, no touching, no kissing - just talking. The gravity of the situation hit us last night. The Doctor, the proper one, meant for us to be together. Well, no, John _is_ the Doctor, but it's all a bit wonky. Do you see my point? Yes, John is the Doctor, but not to me. He's like... I don't even know how to describe it. Honest. I understand it all but - it's just like regeneration, just under different circumstances. Maybe I just need to get used to it._

_I know we can grow together, though, and I think that's what matters._

_Anyway, we talked last night. He told me about Donna, only because I wanted to know more about her. She's fascinating, honestly. I'd have loved her. He also told me other things, like how the Face of Boe is Jack (which puts our time in New Earth into a whole new perspective) and how Martha walked the Earth to save the universe (a feat that I applaud). It was great, catching up, but both of us were drained from yesterday's events that neither of us could delve in deeper._

_As for me, he asked how I was. What I've done. What was going on with the family. No doubt I'm going to show him this journal one day, but it won't be soon. So I gave him the gist of it. That Dad took over Torchwood and when Sarah got sick, he appointed me as head of Torchwood One. Of course, that stirred loads of controversy, but I was apparently qualified (well, if I do say so myself, I _am,_ but the public doesn't accept traveling in a blue box with an alien for two years as a proper CV) with a little help from his friends at Cambridge and well... I told him about the President of the States, and all that good stuff. _

_Things were going good for me in these two years. Running Torchwood One, rebuilding a life. Now I have the Doctor back in my life, and I guess all is well, right?_

_Right..._

_Dad is still trying to figure out how to integrate the Doctor (or John, as he prefers for his legal name) into society, but all's well. As far as everyone else in London knows, I brought a guy home. And that guy ate dinner with me, my parents, and Tony, and everything was perfect. Even right down to Mum smacking him for being a prick at the table and then proceeding to hug him (and refusing to let go after he was done) for coming back. Met with a smack again for being rude, but hey. It's Mum, after all._

_And I'd also like to add that Tony's really taken with the Doctor. That's a good sign, yeah? One big happy family, then. _

**0o0o0**

The Doctor exhales. That wasn't so bad. Rose ended up happy. John was happy. Hell, even Jackie was fine with it all. That's good, right?

Right.

He's about to read more when it occurs to him that he's tired. God, he's tired - exhausted - and everything has seemed to happen today. One day he's intending to visit a grave, then the next he ends up running into her, oh _her_ and her beautiful humanity. Yes, humanity tarnished by years of war and waste, but still. She's _alive_, and he's never been so happy to see someone who's supposed to be dead be alive.

Rose Tyler. _His_ Rose Tyler. She is alive, and for the most part, she is there.

God, he's overwhelmed by everything really. Even for a Time Lord.

So he yawns, and stretches, and finds his way to his bed. He sinks down into the mattress, giving a relaxed sigh before he closes his eyes to drift off to sleep.

**0o0o0**

In two hours, he wakes up refreshed.

He also wakes up to find a towheaded woman, her eyes sunken and wild with reawakened fear, at the foot of his bed with the journal in her lap. Before he can even sputter out "Rose," he is met with a haunted look and he stops.

She stiffens, hardening her features back to the military-like Rose Tyler he met hours ago. Then she puts the book aside.

"Couldn't sleep, not really," she tells him, tucking a leg under the other. "Surprised you did."

"I had a good bedtime story," he replies and sits up properly.

"Where were you before you dozed off?"

"Day after the Medusa Cascade."

There's a silence, and both of them smile at each other. Her tongue peeks out between her teeth as she looks back down at the journal, taking it back into her hands. She smooths her thumb over the cracks in the leather, sighing softly as she does so. He watches her as she steadily flips through the pages and shake her head at some of her entries.

"This book saved my life," she tells him as she closes it. She slides it back to him, and with a hesitant breath, she adds, "Also caused my failed suicide, but y'know. Different strokes of life."

He nods tersely. Letting the book lay by him, he moves closer to her. "I have questions."

"Pertaining to the things you've read or the things I've said?" she asks skeptically, shifting so she faces him.

"...the latter," he admits.

"'Fraid I can't tell you that yet. Read on," she gestures to the book beside him. "I'm sure you'll get your answers."

"Oh, come off it, Rose. Can we just talk about it?"

"No."

"Why?"

He looks at her blankly, expecting something snarky and angry. That response never came. Only a sigh.

"John never read the journal."

"That's terrible," the Doctor tells her, "but if he's anything like me - and he is, trust me - he would rather have you tell him instead."

"That never happened," Rose says softly.

"So make it happen with me." He catches her there. Traps her into a place where she has to agree. When a look of defeat crosses her face, he laughs out of triumph and grins wildly. She acts like she isn't amused, of course, but he can tell she is deep down.

"Oh, alright. As long as we stick with what's actually in here. What do you want to know?"

* * *

**A/N: **Ha! The Rose we know is slowly starting to come back. I think.Thank you guys so much for all the reviews! It really got me working on this chapter. So don't forget to leave a review when you're done - it's all motivation to me. It doesn't have to be a fleshed out critique. Hell, even the shortest of them make me smile.

ALSO! If you have any questions pertaining to this story, my writings, or if you want a meta on Doctor Who, I'd like to redirect you to my tumblr. I follow back if you post DW. So get on it! A link is provided in my profile, or if you don't want to go through my profile, here's my url: _effies-tardis_. Thank you once again!


	4. Chapter 4

**War Not Easily Won**

* * *

**Summary:** AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead.  
**Ship:** Rose x Eleven.  
**A/N:** This chapter backtracks a bit from where the last one left off. Important to note that before you start reading. I know this update was like really late, but hey, it's 6k words. I tried to make up for my tardy update in word count x) In this chapter, a crapload is happening; there is a bad pun, cute fluff, and really, really angsty stuff coming your way. The last part, where Rose is telling her story, I purposely limited my use with tags. This was to focus mainly of Rose's story and the Doctor's responses to vital points. Thank you, and enjoy! x  
**Trigger Warning:** There are mentions of self-harm (with intent concerning Bad Wolf), suicide, substance abuse, and non graphic depictions of torture in this chapter and the next.

* * *

_( interlude & part four; wounds that never healed and rose's confessions )_

Rose doesn't sleep well, though it is not a new occurrence to her. She's fairly used to resting for only a couple hours before she wakes up again - four hours a night, tops, and she's good to go. It isn't a healthy routine for a human, but then again, she's not exactly human anymore.

So she gets up. She's only momentarily fazed by the fact that she's in her old room in the TARDIS - a room she hasn't been in for two hundred years - before she remembers the events that had only occurred in the past eight hours or so. The threat to shoot him, then the kissing, and the sex, and the fighting - oh, Rome was not built in a day, but she and the Doctor had made it seem like so.

Hours ago, the had a cuppa. Then she went to sleep. But really, she wasn't sleepy, no, not at all. No, she had rather not been present in the unraveling of all her secrets. So she left him to his own accord. He was at the whim of his own curiosity.

It shouldn't have bothered her, the fact that she had let him be, but it did.

So here she is, awake and staring up at the ceiling because she didn't feel like getting out of the warmth of her old bed. This... strangely feels like home. No, it isn't the Powell Estate, or the Tyler Mansion, and it isn't the house she and John shared off in Greenwich. But it feels just as comfortable they once did; perhaps because the TARDIS once was.

It's like she never left.

What did she get herself into? Rose knows this is lost territory for her, and for the good of Earth as she knew it, it shouldn't have been found again. Definitely.

Because she is currently anchored to her responsibilities, and she is not a nineteen year old girl in over her head anymore — Rose is not naive, not young, not inexperienced; she is well over two hundred years old, and she of all people should know that she is drawn out from necessity. If she leaves, she is just acting on what she wants, what she desires. Not on what she needs to do.

Perhaps, she thinks, that's why she gave him her journal, her files. That maybe, just maybe, he will realize her reasons for needing to stay behind. Perhaps that's also why she'd rather be alone in her room than be with him as he reads. Because she knows that if he asks her to come one more time, she might say yes.

Her lack of self-control is terrifying, really.

Rose wonders what he's up to now. Horrified? Terrified? Disgusted? She would be too, if she were him. So weak, so stupid she was, so...

Human?

Yes, perhaps, but that is no excuse for what she did.

She is already walking to his room before she even realizes it.

**0o0o0**

His room has changed, but she expected it to. After all, it's been four hundred years for him, and things were bound to be different in all respects.

There is an unpeeled banana on his desk, though; his affinity for fruits (minus the pears) seems to not have changed.

His room is a bit more metallic than what she remembers. His old room - the one she fell in love with - had been a burst of color here and there, more spontaneous and less modest, and _oh so_ loud. This regeneration's room - it's dark. There's a quietude. There's something of an eerie stillness. It's painted a darker shade of grey and his bedspread is monochromatic. Blacks and whites here and there, more linear, less sporadic.

It's different. She doesn't know how she feels about it, really.

Rose makes her way to his desk, intending only to throw the browning banana peel into the bin, but is caught by surprise by the pictures pinned to his bulletin board. She recognizes two of them - Amy and Rory, was it? The Girl Who Waited and the Last Centurion. They were a lovely couple, lovely people. They were good to the Doctor.

There's three other pictures, she sees, their names on the bottom of the polaroid. A pretty girl who looks worldly and young, Clara; a gruff looking man, Nathan, with tattoos stacked like rungs of a ladder on his neck; a middle aged woman sporting mousy brown hair and what appears to be her son, and their names are Leanna and Liam; the people in the photos all look like they're sad and happy all at the same time.

She knows that feeling too well.

She wonders why they left, or how. Who they are, what they've done, and if Liam had received his A-Levels or if Clara had fell in love with the Doctor too. They have stories, all of them. She hopes they had happy endings.

The Doctor snores suddenly and it startles her; Rose turns her head to see if he had scared himself awake and sees the journal left abandoned on his desk. Frowning, she picks it up and sits herself on the foot of his bed. He hadn't finished it.

Why?

Oh, she wouldn't know - she hadn't read it herself, even after all these years, for she is terrified to recount her days. She doesn't want to wallow in her own pain, shackled to her fear. She wants it far away from her, distance so great that she won't even remember - she just doesn't want to face it, honestly.

That's not very fair to the Doctor.

Her eyes linger on the page he left off - the day after the Medusa Cascade, the first day with John. She still called him Doctor, but that was when he was the only one left her life. Now there's the Doctor, and it's all a bit confusing now, to distinguish between hers and... him.

She remembers that day well. It wasn't necessarily happy, but it was a good start. For her. For him.

Yes, it was a good day.

She skips ahead to the beginning of war and she stops herself. She couldn't do this to herself. She shouldn't. It's not healthy.

All of it should just _stop_. She wants it to go away and just disappear from her past, hell, she wishes she never looked into the heart of the TARDIS, because if then, if then she would be dead by now. She wishes she never met the Doctor. A shop girl with no A-Levels wouldn't have been so sad.

There is no decadence in infinity.

The Doctor wakes up, then, and her heart sinks down to her stomach and she kicks herself for having thought those things about him. She looks at him, him at her, and the silence is too strenuous for her liking.

"Couldn't sleep, not really. Surprised you did." She sits criss-crossed, the journal now laying beside her.

"I had a good bedtime story," he tells her, pushing himself off his back and into a like sitting position.

She asks him where he left off; he replies accordingly. She has to smile at that - honesty rings loudly in this form. So straightforward, so clear to the point. Rose admires it, but it also tells her that he is so unlike his last form. Whereas her Doctor was so human to be alien, this one is too detached to be human.

How did her Doctor die? His tenth form - how did he die and why did he turn into this one?

She hands him the journal. Pondering on the object at hand, she says words that both of them want to hear. There's truth in them, but not enough to satisfy him. "This book saved my life." True, very, but only so. Thoughtfully, but hesitantly, she adds, "Also caused my failed suicide, but y'know. Different strokes of life."

That's a bit harsh, now that she thinks about it.

"I have questions."

_I don't have all the answers,_ she thinks ruefully. But she doesn't say that. Instead, she questions whether or not they are questions for her, or for what he has already read.

Of course it's the latter.

And he asks why. Question number one, always _why_. Why this, why that.

She tells him why, and he is unhappy with her reason, no surprise there. So the Doctor forces her hand in choosing to narrate her own story for him, but a part of her thinks that she lets him. Only because she thinks it's about time to heal, and what better way to do so with a Doctor present?

**0o0o0**

The Doctor makes tea while she settles into a seat at the table. The kitchen isn't much different than before, the only difference being that there appears to be a mini-cooler by the fridge and it is stocked with fish fingers.

She won't ask. She'd rather not know.

"My second-to-last companion...make that plural, actually," the Doctor says, frowning at the last bit, "Loved to cook. So don't think I've gone all domestic. I never had a mother and son companion-team before them, but hey, first for everything."

Rose smiles. Leanne and Liam, she assumes.

The Doctor looks back at her as he pours tea into their cups. Beaming, he says, "Speaking of firsts, have you ever tried fish fingers and custard?"

"Fish fingers. And custard," she repeats slowly, looking at him like he just told her that he was secretly the Queen of England. "You serious now? _Custard?_ You're not pissing around with me, are you now?"

"No," he says with a smirk. He slides her cup over to her, then takes a seat just right across. He lowers his voice, leaning in, as if they had a secret to share. "And if I do say so myself, it's bloody fantastic."

Rose vigorously shakes her head as she sips her tea, her eyes rolling as he lets out a noise of disappointment. She purses her lips, faking a gag as the Doctor gets out from his seat and makes his way to the fridge. Out of all the weird and alien things he's ever done, this one has to take the cake. "I think you're on something, you're mad!" she teases with a laugh.

"Not on something, on_to_ something, Rose Tyler," he tuts, setting before her readily-made fish fingers and fresh custard. "Courtesy of the TARDIS."

"Do I have to?" she whines. The idea itself was utterly... disgusting. Of course, the Doctor always had an affinity with disgusting things, so it's no surprise to her that he would even be remotely satisfied with a meal like that.

"If you can face the Dalek nation and Cybermen, you can eat fish fingers and custard."

"I'm going to kill you if I vomit," she tells him, reluctantly picking up a piece of fish with her fingers.

"I've got two regenerations left; I'm not worried."

"I'll kill you twice, then," she counters mockingly. Without so much of another word, he leans back into his chair and crosses his arms, nodding pointedly at the bowl of custard.

"Go on. I'm waiting."

She closes her eyes as she dips it into the pastry sauce. "I'm not doing this," she says to herself, ignoring the "Yeah, you are," from the Doctor. She must've had the fish only centimeters from her mouth before she feels him take her hand to push it properly in. She muffles in protest, but even her gob couldn't do much with a custard-covered fish finger inbetween her teeth.

The taste of disgust never came, but instead, she finds herself actually enjoying it. Opening her eyes, she chews, nodding in surprise.

"Good, huh?" the Doctor asks, grinning.

"You were right," she admits thoughtfully. "It's good." She reaches over to grab another fish-stick-and-custard, continuing. "How did you discover this, anyway? It's kind of random."

"Remind me to tell you about Amelia Pond," he says softly, watching her intently. There's an undeniable sadness in his eyes, and she pities him. Amy probably was lost, horribly, terribly. His eyes cast down and she regrets even asking.

"Yeah?" is all she says.

He perks up, then, and it's all she can manage to not hug him to pieces right then. He squints his eyes at her, then licks his thumb as he says, "Hold on, you've got something on your face."

Out of instinct, she pauses before she takes a bite out of the fish finger. It didn't _feel_ like there was something on her face...

Then the Doctor pushes the fish finger into her face and that's probably what he was referring to.

"_Doctor!_ I swear to God," she laughs, falling out of her seat to avoid further custard-covered-attacks to her face. "Stop!" she shrieks as he follows her, his finger edging dangerously to her cheeks.

Quickly, she rises, heading towards the sink (where hopefully he stocked paper towels like a normal man) to wash the custard off her nose. He comes after her, laughing like a child in a candy store, and immediately she shields herself from him, giggling as she does so.

"Okay, _okay,_ I'm done, no more custard!" he retracts, his voice inches away from her ear. There's a laugh buried in his words, and she could practically hear his smile on his lips.

"Promise?"

"I promise to you," he says softly.

Rose turns and she's caught with a towel smeared in custard in her face; she feels like a slap is warranted, but she is stuck between the counter and the Doctor. His hand steadies them both with his fingers ghosting on her hip, hers gripping the lapels of his coat. They are both all smiles and all dimples, and she manages to sputter out a light-hearted, "Piss off, Doctor," inbetween.

Her eyes are immobilized, locked on his as the laughs in their curses die down and silence falls around them. He rests his forehead against hers, then there is warmth and there is a skip to her heartbeat; when his arms wrap around her waist, she decides that the blame rests entirely on him, of course.

"You've got some on your..." he murmurs, his eyes flickering to her eyes, then to her lips.

"Yeah?" she whispers. She is smiling when he chuckles, when his cheeks turn a bright red.

"You make it worse when you smile," he tells her, then he's closing the gap between them and she finds herself with no intent of stopping him.

Then they're kissing, and it's right, and it's wrong, and suddenly she is the fire and he is the water that cools her. She is death and he breathes life, and she is the angel falling and he is the devil forgiven.

When she has to breathe, they break apart like they've been shocked, like teenagers caught by parents. She presses up against him when he dips his fingers against the waistband of her knickers and gasps like she's seen the face of God when his mouth finds her pulse point.

"You taste like custard."

"Whose fault is that?"

Their lips touch again, and that is when she forgets everything, everyone, everywhere. Nothing means anything to her, not a word, not a face, nothing but his lips on hers and hands on her skin and he-

"You think so loudly when we kiss," the Doctor says suddenly, parting slightly so he can look at her. "Like you're screaming."

"Can't help it," she tells him, and it's true. She hasn't had a reason to keep her barriers all the way up nowadays... not since...

"Not since prison, then?" he finishes for her, stepping back. He nods mindfully, staring at her like he's searching for something worthwhile to deduce and conclude. He swallows. "Rose."

"Yeah?"

"I..."

No, he's not going to do this to her. Not when she could stop him right this second.

"Please don't say you love me," she whispers. She bites her lips as she rests her hand on his chest to push him away gently. "The - John only told me that he loved me six times in our time together. Six times. Each one, I knew he meant it. I could tell you all the days he told me that he did, right to the second, exactly what we doing."

"Rose, you don't have to..." the Doctor trails off, suddenly reaching for her hands. She pulls them away, as if a wounded animal.

She continues anyway, her mouth moving at a pace she didn't know possible, her words spewing out like they were nothing to her. But they meant everything, God did they mean so much.

"He told me the day you left us. Then five months after that, right after we... he told me again three years later, when I told him I lost our child - we weren't compatible, but you didn't know that, did you? The next time he told me, we were in New York City, exactly ten years after the first time he told me, and I was in the hospital because I died for him. He told me again two years after that, when I decided to bake him a banana cake with ball bearings..." she says, and her heart is racing and the tears in her eyes are starting to fall.

"The last time he told me, thirty years later, was when he was on his deathbed and I didn't know. It was over the phone - over the _phone_, Doctor! I was on my way home from the planet Yurisha and... and I didn't _know_, and he died without me. Couldn't wait, the bastard. Couldn't wait for me - you couldn't..."

And she breaks.

Next thing she knows, she's in his arms and she's crying. She's falling apart, and damn it she's doesn't want to. And she was doing so well, so goddamn _well_.

"You're not him," she cries into his chest, trying desperately to pull away from him. "Doctor -"

What is she trying to say? An apology? Another bullshit reason why she can't go with him, another bullshit reason why he shouldn't try to make her open it to him? It's all pretenses now, there's no truth between them, it's different, it feels different, it's not the -

"It's not the same, I know," the Doctor coos, tightening his hold on her.

Lashing out suddenly, she pushes him off her, a force so great he stumbles backwards. "Get the _fuck_ out of my head," she snarls, pointing at him. "You've got no right."

"Then stop screaming your thoughts at me, would you?" the Doctor screams back. He gestures to himself, then barks, "God, it's like you want me to hear you! You're so... so fucking _hypocritical_, Rose! You want me, then you don't, then you do and then you scream. What do you want?"

"I-I don't know!" she yells. "I just— I just.."

"Ah, there we go, the moment of truth! You don't know! Brilliant!" the Doctor mocks, turning around to walk towards the table. He shoves a chair aside, shouting brashly. "You're complicated, that's what you are. You and this—" he picks up the journal laid forgotten on the table and throws it at her feet, "—_stupid_ journal! Complicated! And you won't let me help you, you won't let anyone in. Care to tell me why? No,_ of course not_."

The Doctor is frighteningly angry. That is a given. For a thousand years, he has been a very, very angry man, and he is known for his temper in other worlds than her own. Yes, he is angry, but when is not?

She, on the other hand, she's livid. Absolutely, red-in-the-face, passionately _livid_. A fire-like heat rises within her, and her thoughts and conscience of mind easily separate into two different beings. Divided by this and this alone, Rose Tyler is a dangerous being. After all, she's just as angry as him, isn't she?

She's already holding a knife by the time he turns around to face her.

The Doctor is treading back into black waters, and she is only luring him in. His expression falls once he realizes just what she's about to do.

"Rose? What are you doing?"

And the pretty boy is concerned. His eyes are wild with fear and worry, and anger had dissipated the moment he had seen the knife. Too bad she can't say the same for herself.

"You want to know why I'm too fucking complicated?" she taunts, pressing the edge of the knife to her inner left wrist. "Call this a visual presentation," she says in a whisper.

She's drawing a line down her skin and blood seeps through her cut flesh. Tears flow faster down her cheeks as she whimpers in minute pain. She is used to the hell before the healing, and she is definitely someone accustomed to the pain. It only lasts for seconds, and then she feels it.

A warm sensation floods her—she feels her blood clot around the cut, her discomfort fleeting and her skin sewing back up—and she is glowing. This is the root of her complexity, as the Doctor kindly put it. This is the root of why she is who she is. This is the Bad Wolf, and this is how she cursed and blessed all at the same time.

Gold light shrouds her.

Then, she drops back in reality.

The Doctor is there by her side by the time she regains awareness; he is holding her wrist as his voice wavers in his whisper, "You didn't have to do that."

"But I did," she replies, yanking her wrist from his hands. She glares at him then, unadulterated venom in her words, "The deeper the cut, the longer the pain, the longer the healing, right? I get shot, I heal for one day. I get beaten to death? I'm in a coma for a week. But I survive. Always. Pain is irrelevant without the threat of death."

"You talk as if from experience." His voice is quiet. He stands there as if she had struck him.

"Don't be so daft. You've seen the scars. I died five times for sure but maybe for more. I can't tell anymore," she says, shifting her eyes at the journal by her feet.

The Doctor sighs deeply. He lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, biting his lip in frustration. "I want to understand."

"What do you want to know?"

"What happened to you?"

She turns away from him slightly. "Let's try this again," she tells him, bending down to pick up the journal. "We sit down, and we talk. No fighting. No..touching. Okay?"

He swallows and nods curtly. "Okay."

**0o0o0**

"Did he tell you my name?"

"No, well... We never married... He did tell me one part, the first part. Do you want me to.."

"No, that's between you and him. Well, it's all meta-shmeta, but you know what I mean."

Rose laughs. "Yes, of course, Doctor. He did tell me why he — you — chose to be called the Doctor. You wanted to be known as a healer. Backfired a bit, but a nice thought."

"Ah, yes, well to be fair, I was a mere child then. Always thinking the best but receiving the worst." He looks away, then back to her. "So you didn't have kids."

"I was able to conceive. I couldn't carry her out full term, but I suppose that was the thing wrong with me, I guess. Immortal beings and all. Nice life though, still. Always with the Doctor and had work wasn't really work to me. Traveling was grand, being an international diplomat even better. Picked up a few accents on the way. American, French, and Joohoovian are the best ones to imitate, if you ask me." Rose folds her hands together and sighs. "A nice life, yeah. My brother, Tony, he — well, he wasn't very understanding of me and my life choices. Always antagonizing me and my job. But he and John got on well enough when he wasn't having a hissy fit. When he died, he was only thirty-three. Car crash, coma, no will for his children and his wife...so young, he was. John and I did the best we could helping out his family, but in the end they moved away for security reasons and I didn't get a chance to say goodbye."

"Security reasons?"

"Someone had attacked Torchwood around our twenty-sixth anniversary. Nearly killed Pete and a few other high officials. We were ordered to be wary of attacks on family, so Kate — that's her name, Tony's wife — took her three kids and fled to America. We stayed put. With good reason, though. Pete was in... critical condition, died from complications years later still. Someone had to run Torchwood, you know."

"You?"

She shakes her head at that. "No, no. Not officially. Position went down to this top bloke, Peyton Scouten. Real professional, real old. Rich, though, that's why it went to him. But I ran it with him, though no credit was ever due to me though. I suppose that's okay, because when we screwed up, Scouten took the blame."

She laughs, then, and continues, "Never been director until now. It's all for the best though. They need old minds, with what the war and all. I still remember the times of peace. You'd be lucky to find a lick of harmony around here."

"Old minds know best," the Doctor confirms. He winks and reaches for his cup of tea. "Do you look old?"

"Do I look old to you?"

"You know what I mean."

She pauses to consider the question. "John built a perception filter for me when I was pushing thirty-five and looked like twenty-three. Telling the girls at work that I just have good genes and that I lived at the gym was starting to get tiring. Lost its charm. Oh, I aged, definitely..."

"But.."

"I retired accordingly. Sixty-five. A billionaire. Without John, unfortunately... cancer crippled him, and, well, he passed when I was on a mission. I was fifty-six, I think. And... as for London, I fled the city when I was eighty-seven. People were starting to fish, and I didn't want to deal with that."

"Where did you go?"

"Scotland. Not too far from home but... far enough." Rose dips her head down and laughs. "Picked up a brogue, dyed my hair black, and took off the perception filter. I was killed for the second time in my life there. Got mugged walking alone at night... never been one for sleep, as it was. Some chav came up to me and took my purse; couldn't have left me alive of course, so he stabbed me with a dull knife. He left the knife in there, took off without another look. I was in the alley for five minutes before I died, and I woke up again in fifteen. Not the worst death, but it wasn't fun, let me tell you that."

"Were you okay though?"

"Oh, yeah. Pulled the thing out of my stomach and went back home. Scars cleared in three months," she says with a smile.

"Lovely," the Doctor says as he cringes. "How long did you stay in Scotland?"

"Only thirteen years or so. Couldn't stay long without arousing suspicion, course. I had no ties to break - just a nursing job to quit and a flat to sell and I was gone. Went to France, next, and broke the perception filter on the way. Other than going back to blonde, my time there was boring. So I went to the States. I worked for the UNIT in New York - where your Martha worked after she stopped traveling with you. It was interesting, honestly. Protecting the world from aliens and ghosts and all. I was able to fix the filter there, too."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"About my immortality? Just two people... my.. Paulie, he had to know. In case I died on missions, or if I healed too quickly. Just so he wouldn't question it, you know? He was trustworthy. Always covered my ass. He was a great man."

"Did you..."

Rose looks up at him, a small grin gracing her lips. "I loved Paulie, but not like you, not like my Doctor. No, I... he understood, yeah. About the - John. Married him though, but it was time to move on. You know? Sixty years passed should be enough time to collect your grievances."

"But?" the Doctor prompts.

"But nothing. It was a happy marriage. He died before we grew old, though. Got shot jumping in front of me. Bloody idiot, he was sometimes. Forgot I could come back to life."

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for."

There's a silence before the Doctor asks, "Who else did you tell?"

There's a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "He called himself Tatum, but I don't think that was his name, honestly."

"Who was he to you?" the Doctor says slowly.

"A man I was trapped in space for three days with. Our ship got stuck orbiting around the stars of Canes Venatici. We were waiting to be rescued. I... I didn't see him again after we were back on Earth."

"Did he tell anyone?"

"I wouldn't know. I was around 167 when I came back to London, adjusted the filter to make me appear to be nineteen, and started over. Went to Cambridge, got my degree, held small government positions and expressed interest in working with all that alien stuff. Back to Torchwood I was, with auburn hair and all, working out small missions and little disasters, when war first broke out."

"War?"

"Civil war. The United Kingdom was becoming tyrannical. Think Big Brother, only not as intense. But of course people weren't happy. No, but you see, I was _for_ them. For the common people. Oh, I was well over a hundred years but I still had this grand delusion that things were going to turn out okay. That the good will always prevail. When it doesn't, not really, but in the occasion that it does, there's always a circumstance. Always a condition. Something has to be sacrificed for a happy ending."

"That's not always true."

"No, it's not always true, but it almost is. How do you think I got here, Doctor? Thirty-eight years of prison takes its toll, you know."

"So what happened, then?"

"I was exiled into the country. Rebels killed government officials as foul play, so I changed my name and went back to blonde. I led them, though, I led people into rebellion and into their deaths. God, that hero complex of mine really fucked me over. I killed people either way. Gun to the head or handing a gun to them - it's all the same. A bullet is shot either way."

"You didn't mean -"

"No, Doctor, I didn't mean to be murderer, but that is no excuse. When there is a rebellion at hand, you have to kill. This isn't something you can peacefully talk out. You can't just schedule appointment with the prime minister and list all your grievances and ask them to change it when they won't listen. Checks and cups of tea mean nothing. Rebellion is an act of desperation, and you have to kill to open eyes. Fact of the matter is, you're going to hold a gun to someone's head and you're going to pull the trigger. Then you will spend the rest of the night pretending it was for the greater good."

Rose shakes her head and laughs bitterly. "Funny, isn't it? How isolated values become in the face of adversity? If there's anything worth learning in a long life, it's that we become what we swore never would be out of necessity. I told you I was a killer, that much is. The blood of thousands of people are on my hands only because I thought that the deaths of boys and girls were worth restoring peace in the government. And maybe it was. But see, look at me now. Fate, as it were, forcing my hand into the abandoning the rebellion. I had no choice. I could not die, and I was so weak, Doctor. I could not bear to have to stand to witness the slaughter of the British empire in retribution for my idealism. So I took back my word."

"It was necessary," the Doctor says simply. Like he's trying to assure her.

"Yeah," Rose chuckles. "Yeah, it was necessary, lying to them. Told them that if they surrender, I'll work to get back the old UK. No, no instead I was thrown into a prison underground while the rebellion slowly quieted. They waited. The people waited. And I waited, too. When they found out I could not die, they tortured me instead. Called it scientific research, said that their findings would bring peace. Yeah, well last time I checked, the constant electrocution and drowning and beating of a prisoner of war wasn't going to make the cover of TIME magazine. Didn't stop them, though."

"Did you..."

"Oh, I died, probably more times than I counted. Not that it mattered. Beat me to death and in a week I'll be okay. But it didn't stop there. You know, why test on an animal when you had a human in your hands? Well, not human, but as close as it gets. I was a test monkey for small things at first. They already had my will broken, of course, and I was willing. Sick, right? I was willing to do things for them. Disgusting."

"You had no choice."

Her head tilts slightly. "They shuttled me between worlds, universes, making peace with planets and alliances with other galaxies. I learned how to heel when they desire, to ask how high when they said jump. I learned to love the prison. Called it home. Paradigm Stockholm's syndrome, if you ask me. I'd be a playground for psychologists."

Rose inhales deeply. "Well, shit, look at me now. Released for prison and overseeing Britain like the people before me. Politicians lie, but I am not cruel - though, the ones precedent have said the same exact thing. Why am I different?"

"You are Rose, that's why."

"Yeah, and your Rose wouldn't dare touch a gun. But I am not your Rose anymore."

"Don't say that."

Ignoring him, she continues, "I made valiant efforts to restore the empire as it had been before, but I am old, and it is hard. While people are starving in black markets and while we help the States fight the Far East, my job is not over. I am Rose Smith, not Rose Tyler. Are you sure you still want this person on board your TARDIS, Doctor? If I leave now, I leave a world in hell. Is that what you want?"

The Doctor considers this for a few moments. She watches him fold his hands on the table and whisper a barely audible, "No."

"So that's where we are, then," she murmurs.

The Doctor looks up at her. "I have a question."

"I can answer anything."

"Would you have showed your husband - the metacrisis - John - the last 150 years of your journal? Of your life?"

Rose clenches her jaw. "No."

"And why is that?"

"Because he is my husband, and I love him too much to show him my pain."

"Then why show me?"

Rose smirks. "Because you are not my husband."

* * *

**A/N:** The discussion will continue next chapter! I am so sorry for not updating in like a week. School started recently, and I've been trapped under huge piles of homework. But I'll try to update as often as I can. That being said, updates will be most likely every two weeks or so D: I'm so sorry! On the other hand, my outline calls for about three chapters left after this, so there's that. I truly appreciate all of your reviews and I'm so pleased to see that almost one hundred people follow this story! AHHH that's amazing :)

I must go to sleep now, but please, don't forget to REVIEW! Teehee.


	5. Chapter 5

**War Not Easily Won**

* * *

**Summary:** AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead.  
**Ship:** Rose x Eleven.  
**A/N:** AHHH! You guys are amazing. Just want to put that out there. This chapter is a bit more lighthearted than all the other ones, so there's a plus. Enjoy!  
**Trigger Warning:** Substance abuse.

* * *

_( part five; semaphorism )_

_"Then why show me?"_

_Rose smirks. "Because you are not my husband."_

The Doctor stares at her, shocked, but really, did he expect much different? Rose obviously changed. Maybe she's right — maybe she's not _his_ Rose anymore. But she's still Rose, and she is and always will _be_ Rose no matter what. And that's good enough for him.

He leans on that to keep himself from crying out.

"No," he says softly, and she perks her head up at his reply. "I'm not your husband."

"Settled then," is all she says.

The silence between them, he finds, is deafening.

"Is that what he called it? Husband?" the Doctor muses gently, filling the void with words as quickly as he can. He shakes his head, tutting, "How awfully domestic."

"It's easier to say husband than bond-mate, Doctor," Rose says tersely. Her eyes, piercing his momentarily, linger on the journal in between them. She clenches her jaw tightly.

This affectation does not go unnoticed by the Doctor.

"True, true," he agrees. "You wouldn't want to go around introducing him as your bond-mate."

"I suppose I wouldn't."

"People would question."

"I suppose they would."

She eggs him on to continue, but only to shoot him down. As if she's waiting to put him down. The lack of humor in her voice fazes him. What else can he say to get her to smile? The situation is already dark and heavy, and the Doctor doesn't want to continue with all this talk if it meant them not talking and crying by the end of it.

On a whim, he thinks of something. It's an absolute risk, but it's better than this awful silence and her eyes on the wall and his on her.

She opens her mouth first. "D'ya carry whiskey around?"

Drinking wasn't in his itinerary, not by a longshot. Then again, there's never really room for drinking on a usual night — in between Don Quixote and the stars, the Doctor has no affection for alcohol. There's no good time to drink, but really, is there ever?

"Yes," he tells her. In mere moments, he's carrying a bottle with him and leading her to his bedroom.

He's not entirely sure what he's doing anymore. Then again, he's a Time Lord — he doesn't have a sense of insight when it comes to situations like these.

**0o0o0**

"You like to drink," he slurs, his words stumbling upon the other in the haze of the whiskey and wine. The two don't mix, normally, but their intent is to forget and it really doesn't matter how at this point.

"Helps the memory," she replies, and she sounds more eloquent, more smooth than he does, and she's interchanging accents along the way. She's doing her Northern right now, slightly reminiscent of his own two lives back, and he throws his head in laughter.

"Isn't it the other way around?"

"No, Doctor, I don't drink to remember, obviously," she clarifies, laughing along with him.

They're on his bed, and he's sitting up taking a swig out of the bottle and she's lying on her back watching him. Her smile is swollen, her hair tousled and in tangles, and her eyes are sunken from tiredness and red from the alcohol. She's a mess, god awful mess, and he's finding her beautiful still.

A man in love, he decides, will always will be.

He takes another swig for courage and asks the unspeakable — "You still love me?"

Another silence fills the space between them, but he is too drunk to notice. His eyes are on the bulletin board near his desk and his hands are clasped around the bottle tightly in a vice-grip. He swallows thickly. "Sorry. Stupid question. I'm drunk."

But she answers anyway. Slowly, carefully, and he guesses that she's not as drunk as he is because she's meticulous about it. "I still do, just not how you want me to," she says, and it's sincere. Drunks tell no lies, as it the saying goes. Coupled with infinite fury and she's a ringer for the honest.

His hand is then held in hers. She tugs on him, towards him, and she puts the bottle aside and brings him closer. The Doctor sinks into the space next to her, his body settling into the warmth of his bed. He sighs. She smiles.

There's a transcendence about her that he can't put a name on. About him,_ them_. He's not completely happy with her answer, because he still yearns for her to confess an undying love that burns at her core, or something unreasonably cliché like that. But two hundred years, he has to remind himself, is a long time, and it is long enough to fall in and out of love for anyone.

He feels the corners of his lips tug upward in a smile, too. "I'm still completely perplexed by you," he admits. "Always keep me wondering. I love you, but I think I always will. Is that okay?"

"Fantastic," she says, and it isn't bitter, or sardonic, but for once, it is soft. "It's not the same, though, is it? Us. Me. _You_."

"Of course not. Life doesn't stop for anyone, and if you want to live, you have to change. Am I right? We aren't the same, obviously, but it doesn't have to mean that we have to lose each other because of that." He loops his fingers around hers, bringing her hand to his lips. "I found you. I don't want to lose you again."

"But you're going to," she reminds him. "I can't stay forever."

"We have a time machine."

She looks at him, then, and shakes her head. "That postpones the inevitable. The more we put it off, the harder it would be for me to leave."

"Then don't leave."

_"Doctor."_

He closes his eyes and draws in a shaky breath. He knows she'll always have to go. That if she doesn't, it's selfish of the both of them to indulge in their own pursuits. And who is he to deny her the chance to save and redeem herself, her home?

But just one night. One night more with her and he'll be okay. The universe may not grant him happy endings, but it can give him one more night.

"Stay with me, one night more," he whispers slipping his fingers to the crook her neck, brushing her cheek with her thumb. He watches her with steady eyes, taking in every detail of her almost gaunt face, sunken in from years of disrepair. Her cheekbones have been chiseled in under her flesh, jutting out like her skin has been drawn tight over bone, like she's been overworked, underslept, irrevocably disregarding every necessity for a human life. She needs to be taken care of, to be watched after, since obviously she's left herself in a state of neglect for a reason. Her body craves a caretaker, and oh, how he wishes to be hers.

Her eyes flicker to his, and if he isn't mistaken, he thinks she's smiling, too.

"Okay," she says finally. "One night, no more, no less."

"Okay," he nods.

Her eyes are hazel and idyllic, and she blinks slowly as she stares at him in wonder. She moves towards him, shifting to be closer to him, to his quickening heart beats, to his open arms and -

Her kiss is effortless and languid, lithe and quiet. He wonders, as her fingers slip below his shirt and her hands trail down his stomach, if he will ever be the same again.

**0o0o0**

"Doctor?"

Rose's face is the color of her namesake when he looks at her. He smiles at the way his name fluidly escapes her lips, how radiant she is in the whispers of night. There's a trace of vulnerability, too, and he thinks it's a good sign.

His fingers weave around hers as she presses against him, skin against skin, covers hanging loosely over their bodies as her blush manages to transcend to his cheeks.

"Yeah?"

"M'sorry," she murmurs sleepily. She buries her face into his side and yawns. He notices that when she's tired, her Londoner accent comes back strong. He misses it. She continues softly, "For bein' such.. so angry. So wishy-washy with you. Never meant to say those things, I just... two hundred years, s'long time. You know I loved you, you know I still do."

"Yeah?" he says, dropping a kiss to her hair.

"Y'know, man once said that we hate what we lose, but love what we find."

"Who told you that?"

"Forgot, Doctor," she admits after a pause. She shifts closer to him, snaking her arm around his middle. "Don't matter, I don't think." She yawns again, and a in a low whisper she says, "G'night, Doctor."

"Good night, Rose Tyler," he replies, and when she falls asleep, he does too.

**0o0o0**

The TARDIS hums as he slides out of bed. Rose shifts under the covers, moving to fill the empty space, and he smiles when he hears her sigh out of content.

She's going home tomorrow. Or today. Or, in a matter of hours. It's all timey-wimey, really, and he feels the ship probe his mind thoughtfully. The TARDIS comforts him, but she is grieving too. Rose is loved by the both of them.

How old is he now? Pushing a thousand and a half? Young for a Time Lord, yet he is so, so old. Older than most waking, intelligent beings on this Earth. She's so small compared to him.

But she, too, is old. Seen things, endured things that most humans haven't. She's hardened by what hurts her, just like him, in a way. But that's pretentious. The things that hurt him, kills him. He's not a strong person, not like Rose, not at all.

He sighs. Rose Tyler is an anomaly, that's for sure.

And then, as he steps into the console room, as he pulls down back to Earth, he realizes that he's not going to see her again. And this isn't like before. This isn't out of fate, out of his own doing - this is her own, conscious choice. She wants to leave. Or, she needs to. Whichever, whatever, it still...

It still _hurts._

Goodbye is a common thing with the both of them, it seems.

The TARDIS takes her time to land, for Rose is sleeping and the Doctor is mourning. He sits down on the chair and wonders if, if they would would ever see each other again.

_Must be how Rose felt,_ he thinks to himself.

God, he can't say goodbye to her, not for what, the third time yet. It's different this time, too. She can live forever, as far as they can tell. What does that say about them, then, and their future together? Or what would have been future, if not for this. For once, he wishes, that she would be selfish for once.

But that isn't fair either.

He runs his hands over his face and sighs.

"Ready to go, old girl?"

The Doctor lifts his head up and sees Rose all dressed and ready to go. She pets the console affectionately, and the ship gives a noise of sadness. Rose draws her lips tight and nods. "I know, I don't want to leave either. But... I have to." She had looked at him in that last bit, nodding once more.

"You can talk to her?" the Doctor asks in wonderment, moving out of the chair to her side.

"Yeah, well I _did_ look into her heart," Rose teased. Her tongue peaks out of her smile and he dips his head to laugh. She playfully punches him in the stomach. "Hey. Look at me, tiger."

"I don't want you to go," the Doctor whispers, catching her hand and holding it in his.

"Course you don't, didn't expect you to be happy about it," she tells him as she leads him to the door. "It doesn't change much, though, you do realize that."

"Never quite could change your mind, Rose Tyler," he says with a watery smile. He wraps his arm around her waist and opens the door for her.

They walk out, and they are met with her London. The wandering poor occupy the streets, children asking the few rich that dare to walk for money. No one notices them, not really, and Rose turns in his arms to face him. She gives him a brave smirk, a gesture he wishes he could return.

"I plan to fix all this," she tells him, her breath cold like frost in his ear, "I plan to build the country back to what it was before. I'm not leaving you without a purpose, you know that, right?"

He only grunts in reply. "Will I ever see you again?" he asks pathetically, tightening his hold on her thin frame. It's reminiscent of years before, on the beach in Bad Wolf Bay, and it stings.

"Doctor, I've looked into the heart of the TARDIS and seen all of time and space. I don't... remember it all, obviously, and wormholes and breaks in reality don't come too often. But it will, in your lifetime, a few times more. Come back for me Doctor. And then I'll come with you. I will drop everything to come with you, okay? But not now."

The Doctor swallows. And he nods, as best as he can.

"Wait for me, yeah?" he asks her.

"As long as you wait for me."

"Of course."

She smiles and takes a step back, swaying slightly. "This is goodbye, Doctor. Don't make it too hard, I'll be back in a blink." She winks, then turns towards the opposite direction.

He cups his hands around his mouth as she starts to walk further away. "One last kiss, Dame Rose?"

Her laugh resonates in the streets as she spins on her heels to face him. Walking backwards, she shrugs and yells back, "It's something to look forward to when you come back."

The Doctor shakes his head as her giggles creep on to him. Rose turns again, and before the minute's up, she turns the corner and she's out of sight.

There's an empty feeling stirring in his stomach when he heads back into the TARDIS, but he quells it with the thought of seeing her again. Wormholes are a rarity, but always a possibility. Time Lords thrive on possibilities. And the slim likelihood of seeing her again very soon - that's what'll drive him, now.

"Where to old girl? Somewhere far? Somewhere close? Old? New? Cardiff? Right, Jack's there, hm... or should I meet up with him again? Oh, doesn't matter, give me a wild card, where you want to take me," the Doctor says to the ship, which hums in delight.

The TARDIS could take him to Hell right now, and he wouldn't even care.

The Doctor bounces towards the console and flips several levers, spinning on his heels and yelling for the TARDIS to take him somewhere absolutely, brilliantly fantastic. A bittersweet way of ending, but anything's better than nothing. He can see her someday, and that's all that matters to him.

* * *

**A/N**: One more chapter. Or two, if you count the alternate ending I'm writing as well. Sorry it's late! School is keeping me. Sigh... reviews will cheer me up, though. How about it? I'm serious, I'd love to read ANY reaction. One word, one sentence, or one in-dept essay - I don't care, really, honest. Anyway, thank you all for reading, and stay tuned!

ALSO, if anyone is wondering:

_semaphorism  
__n_. a conversational hint that you have something personal to say on the subject but don't go any further—an emphatic nod, a half-told anecdote, an enigmatic 'I know the feeling'—which you place into conversations like those little flags that warn diggers of something buried underground: maybe a cable that secretly powers your house, maybe a fiberoptic link to some foreign country

It's from the dictionary of obscure sorrows. My favorite tumblr yet. You should check that out! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**War Not Easily Won**

* * *

**Summary**: AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead.

**Ship**: Rose x Eleven.

**A/N:** Final chapter! I enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you guys find that everything is wrapped up just fine. I would like to thank you all for your continued support, and I genuinely appreciate every single review you guys post. I know it's been a month since my last update, but school really sucks the life out of me. I think this finale is a good fit. Now, enjoy. :)

* * *

_( part six; as it should be )_

The Doctor has made it a habit to pick up unlikely heroes on his journeys. Since his last meeting with Rose (what is it now, two hundred and some odd years?), he's traveled with a Scottish woman dying from a disease that had a cure not around in her time, a high school drop-out that wandered the streets of Manhattan, and an Eurasian twenty-something who seemed to avoid death at the last minute with every trip they took. Their names, their stories, their beginnings, their endings, their struggles — all ghosts in the Doctor's book of old haunts.

The Doctor knew how to say goodbye. He knows, more than anyone. But it's never easy, always harder than he thought, always worse than the last. He couldn't save Arella — the illness took her in the end and she had refused the new-age medicine he got for her. Chloe ended up going to university five years into their travels, desiring to pursue a career in the sciences. And Blake died in battle, a war inadvertently caused by the Doctor himself, leaving behind six or some odd years of camaraderie and the alien in years of depression.

Other companions came and went in between. Some, he has traveled with before. He traveled with Jack again, just for a couple months. Wilf wanted one last trip before he passed. And Clara's daughter met the Doctor after six fervent phone calls from the woman herself.

There was the seventeen year old girl who fell in love with the Doctor and saved his life when it did not need saving. There was the man who almost jumped to his death if not for the time travelling alien. And there was the child who brought happiness to the Doctor when he was at his lowest.

But each goodbye brings him closer to Rose, as awfully detached as that seems. Because while farewell is unbearably terrible, there's a step taken closer to her with each one. A little birdie once told him that to be happy, he has to find the best in the worst.

So this is what he is doing. Finding the best in the worst.

At the moment, he is traveling with a teen whose time-agent parents have left him behind (he must admit that he does in fact miss Jack, and that this indirect connection to him only presses his yearning more), a blonde, lean sixteen-year-old named Toby. He is American in all respects, a new thing for the Doctor, and he is trigger-happy and has too much knowledge about time travel that it actually takes away from the Doctor's enjoyment as a guide.

But Toby — well, he's lost, frankly, and he's probably never going to see his parents again. And the Doctor knows how it feels to be alone. Toby especially is a unique case; after all, a child born between two agents of Time acquires ability far beyond most people — Toby is a certified genius, but only because his parents took care to make algebra a skill at four and physics second nature at ten. So he doesn't mind that this human seventeen-year old knows too much for his own good, because the Doctors knows the lonely path of a genius far too well. And this kid's gob is probably keeping him from crying and breaking down, and while the Doctor believes in an occasional emotional release, he's not to sure how to deal with a crying teen.

Right now, at this very second, Toby's complaining about the TARDIS's chameleon arch and the Doctor is contemplating on whether or not he should really take the two of them to twenty-second century Nice, France or not. The control room has been revitalized again, now almost monochromatic with a tinge of metallic blue in the levers and buttons. Chic, if you ask the Doctor. His companion has been by his side for a year now, and he's done his best to make things fun for the teenager. But the Doctor is old and so out of touch with 49th century interests, and luckily Toby understands.

In the short year he's been with the Doctor, he has proved two things: he talks a lot, and he is a pain in the ass that only the Doctor can love like a son or younger brother. The teen gabbles on as per usual, messing around with the controls and rapidly discussing on how a simple rewire could fix it up in a jiffy.

"I'm serious, Doc, all you gotta do is take a day off and just take apart her chameleon arch and reweld the wires to their proper places," Toby says, unhooking a wire from its proper place. The Doctor scowls at the boy, and the TARDIS beeps in annoyance. The sandy-haired teen nods in understanding, putting back the wire where it was before. "Sorry."

"Toby, I like the TARDIS how it is. In fact, I love it. Now stop touching my ship!" the Doctor says, shaking his head at the boy. The alien ventures around and snatches the screwdriver Toby had built for himself a month ago from his hand. "You can have this back once you stop messing around with her!"

"Thanks, _Dad_," Toby replies, rolling his eyes at the last bit. "I swear, I make a suggestion and you shoot it down. I bet you we aren't even going to Nice!"

"Too many nude women," the Doctor says in return, tucking the screwdriver into his coat pocket. He treks back over to the array of levers and buttons, setting the destination for random and praying that the TARDIS doesn't end up in Nice. The Doctor spins the wheel and continues in a rather flat boice, "You are too young and I said so, so it's final."

"Hardly a reasonable argument," Toby grimaces, following the Doctor back to the other side of the console. "I am of age, basically."

"Seventeen is barely of age, Tobias, and certainly not in America," the Doctor reminds him. They've had several arguments before concerning his age; one quick trip to the planet Phineus Q-IV, where the legal age is fifteen, and Toby's got it in his head that somehow, he's legal enough to do everything.

Which isn't the case for the Doctor's rules, anyhow.

"But, see, Doc—"

The alien holds his hand up to stop the boy from continuing. On the console, a series of beeps begin, all coming from the same source. He peers at the beeping screen in front of him, telling Toby, "I tell you what, when you turn eighteen, I'll take you to Nice and you can see all the lovely naked women there are on that damned beach."

"Really?"

But his question goes unanswered, for a situation arises that the Doctor did not expect — certainly not now, not suddenly without warning. The beeping screen beeps for a message most important. A wormhole spiraling out of a supernova, just a couple light years away. So in reach, so real, so quick.

The Doctor doesn't have to change his course; the TARDIS is already heading that way. He smiles at the gesture, knowing fully well that the ship is excited for what this means just as he is. Rose. He strokes the console softly, murmuring a low, "Old girl," as he does so.

"Doc, you alright?"

Oh, Toby. The Doctor nods without looking at him and hops to the side, running onto the platform towards the door with glee. He can feel his smile stretching his face more than what he can tolerate, but there is no quelling this feeling. Oh, centuries he's been waiting for this. Two hundred years to see her again, to have her again. Two hundred years too long, if you ask him.

"Doc?" Toby asks again, this time with an odd mix of confusion and amusement in his voice. Warily, he follows the Doctor slowly towards the door. "What's going on?"

"A wormhole, dear Tobias, oh, glorious and wonderful wormhole! Just off the Andromeda Galaxy, just on the corner, oh nothing too big but big enough. Just big enough for us to go through and come back! Perfect size, perfect. Oh, Tobias, I know what we're doing today, and it's going to be fantastic!" the Doctor explains, his words hurried and quick as he shrugs on his tweed coat. He stares at the boy, his hand resting on the door, as if waiting for him. "Well, come on now, this is important!"

"Wormhole?" Toby questions.

"Yes. Now, put your coat on, this is London in the winter we're talking about here," the Doctor nods to the rack, where the teen's signature leather jacket rests. "Well, Tobias, along!"

Toby sighs. It's not a rarity for his questions to go unanswered after all. He pulls on his jacket and throws a scarf around his neck; as he does so, he tries again, "Doctor, why do we need to go through a wormhole. They're for—well, they're gateways to parallel words, aren't they? What's there that isn't here?"

The Doctor presses his lips into a line. He stifles a chuckle — Toby really doesn't know, then. Instead of answering immediately, the Doctor pushes the door open, and they are greeted with a white Christmas in London, England, in a world known as Pete's World to him.

"This world has Rose," the Doctor tells Toby once they step out of the TARDIS. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and peers around, taking in his surroundings. London looks as beautiful as it is in his world. That's a good thing to go by, if anything. Toby stares at the people around, dressed nothing too extreme but nothing normal to him, and gapes at the Zeppelins in the sky in wonder. The Doctor see this and decides that once with Rose, he owes the boy a good story.

The Doctor does a quick scan around, and there are no poor littered on the streets, no gloomy grey skies overhead, no people crying and dying in the alleyways. No people crouching in fear or huddled near a radio or telly to listen in the news, or hidden behind papers detailing the war. The atmosphere is lighter. Happier. Better. He can taste laughter on his tongue, and it is then that he knows that everything is okay. The Doctor smiles and there are butterflies in his stomach, because if anything, he knows that he will be happy, absolutely, from this day on.

Toby nudges him the rib. "Rose Tyler? The one you told me about?"

"That's the one," he agrees. "You're lucky to meet her."

"Are we visiting?" Toby asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No," the Doctor replies. "No, but we're taking Rose with us." He flashes a quick a smile at him and adds, "She's delightful. You'll like her."

The boy grins. "I get to travel with the love of your life, Doc, the Defender of the Universe," Toby says with a laugh. "I'm honored."

The Doctor chuckles and throws an arm around Toby's shoulders in glee. "Let's go find her, mm?"

**o0o0o**

Rose Tyler winds a scarf around her neck and reaches for her keys. Her office smells of paint, and her heightened senses doesn't help her headache; the fumes make her dizzy, and she specifically said to the workers to repaint her office while she was on business in Seoul, which was a month ago. Of course they didn't. Of course they started the renovation the first day she got back.

She sighs to herself and straightens her back. Today will be a good day, she tells herself as she walks out of her half-done, half-empty office.

"Good afternoon, Rose Tyler," an airy voice calls from her side. Rose looks to see that it is her predecessor (and successor, as well, technically), Joyce DeWitt, a kindly old woman who had been Rose's protege forty years ago, when Rose traveled to the States to run UNIT.

It was like that, now: Rose and her ever-reliable perception filter and identity change, taking up one position every thirty years or so, and coming back when her thirty years were up. She alternated between the two careers, only telling the people she appointed her story under the promise they tell no one else It was a cycle to avoid all questions, and it worked, for the most part. Rose likes it, but it is a tiresome routine if anything. She had been hopping out of her seat when Joyce gladly stepped down five years ago — UNIT had been running dry during her recent term, and Torchwood is always dearer to her heart anyhow.

Joyce is long acquainted with retirement, but still she hangs around with Rose at the office whenever she can. As of late, she and Rose's current protege are the only ones who know of Rose's seemingly infinite life. It's not an easy secret to keep or to tell, but a nice conversation starter every now and then. It's even more interesting since the perception filter had broke a couple years ago, much to her chagrin.

"Joyce," Rose greets back, smiling warmly at the elderly woman. "Good afternoon, Happy Christmas. How's it been with Paul?"

"Oh, well, husband's always great with a beer situated near the telly. Men, as you know," Joyce replies, rolling her eyes at the thought. "Lucky for you, your man is not human. The best ones never are."

"I haven't seen my man in two hundred years, Joyce. Just remember that next time you think old Paul isn't anything less of a good husband," Rose teases as they make their way onto the street. Around them, the air is tight and cold and biting - the snow has stopped falling, but the blanket is still fresh. Rose grimaces. Hopefully her car isn't stacked with snow like it was yesterday.

Then again, her luck is pretty much shit nowadays.

"Oh, Rose, it's odd to think that you're older than me," Joyce tells her after a few seconds. She shuffles her feet, doing her best to avoid walking directly in the snow. She lifts her eyes to look at Rose's. At this, the latter averts her gaze to ahead of them. Joyce continues, "I forget sometimes. You're centuries old and I - well, I've got wrinkles to show for sixty years of age, and you've got the smile of a twenty-something. But your eyes... oh, they're the telling ones. Only the ancient have eyes like yours."

"Don't suppose it's a compliment, now," Rose murmurs softly.

"An observation at best, Miss Tyler. Now where are you going?"

Joyce's voice leaves her ears as Rose walks away to the other side of the street. She turns, only to shout to her friend, "Going to see Liat at the shop! I'll see you at dinner, Joyce!"

The old woman only nods in acknowledgement. Rose gives a smile and turns once more. Joyce is a sweetheart, no doubt about it. But she's always been too analytical for her own good, and what's worse, she doesn't know how to filter her words. Their conversations, although hearty and good-natured, turned philosophical far too many times, and often Joyce would say something that stung Rose.

Far too often Rose would say something to combat it, a witty comment here, a rebuttal there. But today, today Rose will brush it off. Though certainly, tonight's dinner with Joyce and Paul will be interesting, as Paul's questions are more crude and straightforward than Joyce's.

She sighs to herself and stops in front of the coffee shop. Through the store window, she sees a black woman at a table, sipping a cup and typing away at her laptop. Rose smiles to herself; at least Liat could brighten her day.

**o0o0o**

Liat scrunches up her face at the spreadsheet in front of her. The numbers all look wrong in her eyes, but then again, she's running on three hours of sleep and has been sitting in an uncomfortable position for more. Working on Christmas isn't something she wants, either.

She pulls back her dark brown hair into a loose ponytail, shifting in seat to crack her back. Doing so would only accelerate her impending back problems, but she is too tired to think of her well being. The barista refills her cup, and Liat whispers a soft, "Ta," in return.

"You work too hard," the woman tells her as she takes her empty plate.

"I have to. I'll be running Torchwood someday," Liat says.

"Someday isn't today. It's Christmas. You shouldn't be working, Miss," the barista presses.

"I could say the same for you," Liat counters, slipping the barista a few pounds for the refill. She focuses back onto her laptop, refraining from yawning right then.

"Touche, touche," the barista says, laughing. She holds up her hands to refuse the money. "You keep it. On the house. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," Liat nods, typing away without further acknowledgement of the barista.

It isn't as if that she didn't enjoy her job. It's just... well, she didn't enjoy her job. Plain and simple, it's one of the most stressful things she's ever experienced. Perhaps it's because she knows of the responsibilities to come, and perhaps it's because she keeps a very large secret as well. Regardless of the reason, Liat is a worrier at heart and this job puts too much pressure on her that she doesn't think she can handle.

But then there's the perks of her job. Travel. Aliens. Science and history all in one. And the people she works with are amazing.

She supposes thats her silver lining.

She supposes that's why she stays.

"Liat."

She looks up, and there is her mentor, her predecessor, beaming at her with wide eyes. Rose Tyler, everlasting woman, who single handedly changed the country for the better, reshaped a previously corrupt organization, and built a home in the city that forgets who she is every half century.

Liat has admired the woman since the moment she stepped foot in Torchwood as an eighteen year old intern who scraped by with the bare minimum for most of her life. Five years later, and now she is training to follow Rose's footsteps.

"Good afternoon, Rose," Liat greets warmly, standing to properly hug the woman. "Shitty Christmas, too?"

"Oh, like always, you know. Christmas in coffee shops with contracts to read." Rose folds her arms and stares at Liat for awhile. She reaches to close the notebook before the young woman.

Liat pulls the notebook out of her reach.

"Go home, Liat, you need your rest. You need a good holiday," Rose tells her, almost scoldingly. "Take a week off, come back on the second. Don't stay cooped up in your flat or come around to dinner at Joyce's. Take a train to Suffolk and spend time with your family. Enjoy your holiday."

"I need to finish up work," Liat says simply. "But thank you for your concern."

"It wasn't a concern. It was an order," Rose says.

Liat watches her carefully. She wasn't kidding.

"If I'm going to run Torchwood one day -"

"-You're going to need to know how to balance your time. I know how it works, Liat. It's been my job for four centuries now."

Well, there goes her argument. Liat knows Rose is right. She know if she continues on, she'll drop dead from overexerting herself.

Liat hates being wrong.

"Walk with me," Rose says after awhile, getting up from her seat. She extends a hand to the girl, who takes it warily. "We'll go to Hyde Park and walk, if that's okay. Leave your stuff here, I'll have it dropped off at your place."

Liat only nods. She leaves a tenner on the table, and as they leave, she catches the barista's eye, who gratefully smiles back at her.

**o0o0o**

The snow starts falling again.

Rose walks side by side with her protege, who talks about strictly business. The girl knows how to talk about work, but when it comes to personal things, she becomes a wall. The older woman is not sure if she appreciates or not.

"How's your mother?" Rose interrupts the girl mid-sentence, something about the Queen's recent call to Torchwood.

Liat suddenly tenses, and Rose can see her mind locking and her jaw clenching. "Good," Liat lies.

"Don't lie to me."

"She's good considering her usual self," she says. "I don't wish to spend Christmas with her, though. She'll only ask for more money."

"Does she need it?"

There's a long a silence and Rose catches the pause in her breathing. The young woman closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Not from me," Liat says tersely. "But I know Ella will give it her. Even if I tell her not to."

Rose doesn't say anything. Not in response to that, anyway. She mentions the color of the sky, how it has faded to an off-white, how cold it is when she doesn't realize it. She brings her jacket closer to her, timidly finding warmth in the wool lapels.

Snow days like these remind her of the Doctor. Two hundred years past and he still makes her heart whirl.

"I don't suppose you think you'll be staying at Torchwood for long." Liat's quiet voice breaks the silence, her eyes focused on the path ahead.

"I might travel, I might not. Maybe I'll stay long enough and milk my time. Maybe I'll leave next month," Rose answers her. She hasn't thought about it, actually. This is the earliest she's picked a successor, though, so maybe she's trying to tell herself something.

"I can't imagine your patience."

Rose frowns at that. "How do you mean?"

"Waiting. For The Doctor. It must get tiresome for so long."

"A decade is a second to me. I've got enough time to kill," she replies accordingly.

"You think he'll come soon?"

"I don't know."

It's the only answer she knows to be true.

Rose grimaces at that.

"Do you think he'll ever come?"

Oh, no one ever knows the answer to the question. It's a tricky one, a complex one at best. The Doctor never goes back for the people he can't save. Perhaps she's just one to jot down in his book of the dead. Perhaps she's destined to save a world who doesn't need saving anymore.

Maybe the reason why there was never a Rose Tyler in this world was because it has been waiting for her to come along.

Or maybe the Doctor is happier without her.

Oh, Rose, always the optimistic one.

But before she can answer, a boy runs into her. Completely by accident, of course, but it puts Rose off and she grumbles under her breath.

"Jesus, I'm sorry ma'am," the boy, a blonde teen with disheveled hair to match his otherworldly clothes. Reminiscent of the twenty-fourth century, if you ask her. American, too, which isn't strange considering many tourists come to visit family around this time. Still... the Californian twang in his words isn't from this time.

This boy shouts time traveller. Liat picks up on this as well and nudges Rose in the ribs.

"S'alright, just watch out next time, son," Rose says warily. The boy is watching Liat carefully, almost admiringly. He reverts his attention back to Rose.

"Thank ma'am, Merry Christmas!"

He walks off, this time in a slow pace. The boy looks around, as if looking for someone. The two women turn around back to the path.

Liat murmurs to Rose once they're out of an earshot, "Pick up on that time-traveller-ness?"

"Oh, of course," Rose grins. "He was looking at you, you know. He's quite attractive, by the way."

"He quite young, too," she laughs, playfully pushing Rose aside. "Coulda babysat him."

"There's another place you could've sat on as well," she teases.

While their laughter echoes around, a new layer of snow covers the park, and Rose thinks to herself that this Christmas won't be too bad. After all, it could only get better from here.

**o0o0o**

"Doc, I finally found you."

"Yeah."

"There was this really pretty girl - needed to see her closer, so I ran smack into this blonde woman, her friend I think - and it worked! She saw me. She smiled at me...she wants me."

"Toby."

"Can we take her?"

"_Toby_!"

"Oh, I suppose we'd have to explain ourselves then... you do it, you're better with words."

"Toby, _seriously_."

"...Sorry."

The Doctor shakes his head and laughs. He slings an arm around the boy's shoulders and pulls him close. While sometimes the Doctor has to parent the teen, he's more of an older brother than a father. He likes it better that way.

"I may have embarrassed myself," Toby groans. "I barely say a word and she thinks I'm weird. God, I'm hopeless."

"Nah, don't say that, you're a handsome fella. Girls like you. Just don't talk and they'll all want you."

Toby mocks laughter and punches the Doctor in the side. "Oh shush, Doc." He sighs dramatically. "There they are, Doctor. Rounding back here, we're bound to run into them. Lets turn. Now, if you love me, Doc, let's go."

But the Doctor stops in his tracks.

His hearts jump to his throat and he feels his last breath leave him. It's like someone had punched him in the stomach, leaving him breathless and winded and absolute, positively surprised. And inside, he lurches for her, for her touch, to brush his fingers over skin, to lick salt from chips from her fingertips.

He isn't aware that he's walking towards Rose until she's in front of him, staring at him like he's the best thing in the world. A voice in the back of his mind reminds him that to her, maybe he is. He smiles. She smiles.

Her voice flutters. "Where's the bowtie?"

"This new me abhors the word," he tells her. Truthfully, this new him hates most things the last one did. The only constant is the absolute fascination of the anomaly that is Rose Tyler.

The smile reaches her eyes and she nods in understanding. "I like your face. I really do."

Of course she does. Many women have sought after this one, chased him for years to get a good look at him. "How'd you know it was me?"

Rose shrugs. Like she herself doesn't know. "Only you look at me like that. Like I'm the best thing in the world."

"Because you are."

Then Rose Tyler in his arms and he breathes in deeply. She smells like talcum and roses and a new perfume he can't quite put a name on. She feels softer, is softer, and her bones have smoothed over into skin and her muscles are taut against his.

She is Rose Tyler. She is Rose Smith. And she is better, infinitely better than what he remembers.

"You came back," Rose whispers in his ear.

"I came back," he confirms, and he kisses her cheek. The softness of her skin meets his slightly chapped lips, and she is real, definitely real.

He's so happy.

Unbelievably happy.

She steps back and sniffs, drying her eyes with her sleeve. "This..." she hiccups, smiling at her inability to form words. She reaches for the skinny black woman beside her, pulling her forward. The young woman is shocked, pleasantly of course, but shocked nonetheless.

The Doctor extends his hand and she takes it without hesitance. "I'm-"

"The Doctor, I know, I know," the woman says gleefully. "I'm Liat."

"She's the new director of Torchwood," Rose says, slipping an arm around Liat's middle.

The Doctor watches Liat's face change from a state of wonderment to a state of surprised joy.

"Rose..." Liat says slowly. "Are you -"

"I'll be leaving tonight. I'll be gone forever. I trust you," Rose says, smiling at the woman as if she were proud of her. She turns to the Doctor, then to the boy behind him. "You the companion of this old fool?"

"Yes'm," he says shortly, stepping forward to offer his hand. The Doctor grins at this; he's starstruck and flustered, but mostly the latter.

"Your name, son?" Rose feigns a military voice, strictly formal and commandeering in every aspect. She takes his hand and shakes it firmly.

"Tobias," he says shakily. "Toby for short."

The Doctor slings an arm around Toby's shoulders and grins. "This one is a bit stuck with me. Been with me for about a year now, right Toby?"

Rose giggles at the teen's expression - the boy looks like he's in awe of her, a compliment well-received. "He looks like Jack. You sure this isn't his kid?"

The Doctor laughs. Then, he freezes, slightly concerned. The thought has crossed the Doctor's mind before, but never has it seemed so...plausible.

Nah.

"Course not, Rose, I've thought of that already," the Doctor says quickly. "Now, come on. The TARDIS has missed you."

"And I've missed her too, Where is she?"

"Collecting snow... right over - " the Doctor spins to point at the ship, a few dozen meters to their right. "There."

Then he holds out his hand, and then she takes it.

And after all these years, the Doctor thinks he's finally happy. The two of them walk in silence, taking in each other's presence before it becomes solidified reality. It seems too good for him, too. It seems like this isn't real, like the universe is being too kind to him.

But the doubt fades away when they arrive to the TARDIS. It opens upon his arrival, a feat that impresses Liat and makes Rose giggle is surprise. Toby steps inside, complaining about the cold. Liat stands outside in wonder.

"Come on, you going in or not?" Toby says from the inside, his words directed to Liat.

She is puzzled, and both Rose and the Doctor laugh. Then the young woman shakes her head, crosses her arms, and walks in.

"This better be as good as Rose told me," she says while taking the waiting hand of Toby. She steps in, closing the door behind her.

The Doctor and Rose wait for a second. Then:

"Are you aware that the inside is like ten billion times bigger than the outside?" Liat says, popping out her head from the inside of the ship. "Because bloody hell, it is."

The Doctor only smiles as he watches Toby pull her back inside. He hears him whisper to her, "Let them have their moment."

And so he and Rose do.

She looks at him, expectantly. All he wants to do is...

"You owe me a kiss," he says suddenly.

"I do owe you a kiss," she replies, like she's been expecting it for awhile now.

And then.

Her lips meet his. It is gentle, fragile, like the slightest step forward would break all meaning and ruin all of time and space. Her fingers tug at the collars of his polo, and his blood runs hot through him and he can feel it pounding in his ears to a rhythm that is entirely for them. For her.

She leans back. Her eyes flick down to his lips and her laugh barely makes it out when he pulls her closer and kisses her again. He craves her more than anything right now, he misses her, God, he misses her like crazy and it's been too long. He needs to be closer because if not, he thinks he will damn well explode right then and there.

A snowflake lands on her nose mid-embrace.

They part. She reaches forward to smudge her lipstick off of his jawline and says, a laugh dancing at the corner of her lips, "That color look horrid on you."

"I think I can pull it off," he jokes, catching her hand and pulling it towards him. "Rose Tyler."

"Hm?"

"You make breaking my hearts quite a habit," he whispers as he rests her fingers over his chest. "But it is all worth the pain as long it is you."

The Doctor is doomed to fall even more in love with her. He can feel it in his bones. And when she smiles - when she dips her head down and pulls her fingers to grip his shirt to pull him closer - he is only certain that she was put on this Earth to save him and save the world for as long as they both shall live.

Two hundred years without her doesn't seem too bad when they could spend two thousand more together.

"Let's go inside, Dame Rose, or else you might get sick, and that will ruin all my plans," the Doctor says as he leads her inside the TARDIS.

"Plans?" Rose asks, a wider grin gracing her lips.

"We never did go to Barcelona," the Doctor whispers in her ear. Then, he directs his attention to the other two occupants of the console room - Liat and Toby, both of whom were sitting in silence in front of a screen. Inwardly, the Doctor rolls his eyes. Toby must've accessed the camera outside so that he and Liat could watch him and Rose reconcile.

The disgust on Toby's face and the smirk on Liat's confirms his suspicions.

"Liat, it's been a pleasure, but I'm afraid now that you're the new director of Torchwood, you have to stay here," the Doctor says simply, holding out his hand for the girl to take. "But I can take you anywhere you want for Christmas. Name a place, and I'll bring you there. A gift, as thanks for keeping my Rose company. So, where to?"

The woman glances at Rose, then back to the Doctor. Not sure what to expect, she takes his hand. "Home. Suffolk. I need to see my family."

"Excellent!" the Doctor says, bringing Liat to the console. He presses a few buttons, then points to the lever adjacent to a flashing blue button. "Pull that, and we'll be right outside your home."

Liat pulls the lever, and within a second, they're outside a homely place. The four of them step out to face a scene taken straight out of a wintry fairy tale: a small cottage with crawlers growing on walls and trees covered in white, bricks aged but well-kept, smoke billowing from a chimney and the smell of coffee sifting through the air - Liat stares at her home, then says to Rose, "I'm here."

"Tell your sister I said hello, and that I wish her the best," Rose says quietly, going up to the young woman to pull her into a hug.

"What do I tell them? Joyce?" Liat asks, her voice cracking at the the last word. Her hold tightens as tears run down her cheeks; trails of smeared mascara and eyeliner now smudged onto her lids, she leans back to wipe at her eyes.

"Tell them I went away. That I won't be back for awhile. Joyce will know better."

"Okay," Liat whispers, her lower lip quivering as she draws in a deep breath. Pulling her lips into a watery smile, she says, "You'll be a mystery for the ages."

"That's the plan," Rose tells her. "Oh, Liat, you'll do wonderful. I know you will."

It's all in Rose's strength to not cry in front of the girl. To not break down and admit she's hesitant to leave. For the past four hundred years, this has been her home. For the past four hundred years, this is all she's known. But what good would it be to let Liat see her crack?

The Doctor understands. More than anyone else, he thinks. Toby crunches the ice beneath his feet beside him. He pats the Doctor on the back affectionately. "Deep in thought, Doc?"

"I don't like goodbyes," is all he says. He stuffs his hands in his pocket and exhales.

"You're not the one saying goodbye," Toby says after a while.

The two women hug once more, and a cold breath manages to seep from his throat. "Doesn't make it easier on me," the Doctor murmurs as he opens his arms to take in Rose's trembling form. He watches Liat go for Rose as she buries her face into his chest, and he watches Liat wave to the three of them for one last time. Then she disappears into the house, and suddenly, the three of them find themselves trudging back through the snow to the TARDIS.

She walks out from under his arms the moment they enter the TARDIS and heads for the console; as she runs her hands over the panel, she whispers something sweetly familiar, something he hasn't heard in ages.

Melody, like music; words, like English; home, like her...

She speaks Gallifreyan so naturally to the TARDIS.

Toby stares at her.

So does the Doctor.

She perks her head up at them. "Four hundred years on that world. I've learned a few languages on my way."

"That -" the Doctor starts to say, but she cuts him off.

"John taught me." She lowers her eyes to the console and brushes her thumb against the surface. "Took a while to master it...still haven't got it down, but..." She trails off, her eyes meeting his when she lifts her head.

The Doctor nods briefly, coughs nervously. He hate how much he fidgets around her, how unnerving it is to know that she's not the nineteen year old shop girl from the Powell Estate anymore. That she's went through as much pain as he has and has seen too many tragedies and travesties for her to ever be the same anymore.

But she's still Rose, and she's here with him. And that's better than anything he could ever imagine.

He walks towards her, holding out his hand for her to take. He flashes a soft smile. "Where are we going, Rose?"

"Wherever," she replies, lacing her fingers through his. "Whenever. I don't mind."

"Chips? Applegrass? New Earth?" he says excitedly, his words bouncing off the walls as he drags her around the console to set their destination. "Cardiff? Jack? We need to catch up, Rose Tyler! And you should pick the place."

He starts to fiddle with the devices, pulling levers and pushing buttons before her fingers clamp around his wrist and pull him closer to her. She stands on her tip-toes and leans in, her warm breath brushing against his ear and her hands traveling under his shirt as she whispers, "How about your bedroom, yeah?"

He hears Toby mutter to himself from the other side of the room and leave without another word.

The Doctor chuckles, his core stirring at this type of "catching up." He grabs her hands, pressing them against the nearest surface - the wall, as it ends up being - and moves in to capture her lips with his. He lifts a hand to cup her cheek and smooth across her skin with the pad of his thumb, this time his smile reaching hers in one more kiss. "I missed you," he tells her.

"I missed you too."

"You still love me?"

"Does it need saying?"

He finds her lips once more, pinning her to the wall with his whole body. It is then he realizes just how much he's missed her, and it is then he realizes just how much he needs her.

When she nips at his bottom lip, he realizes that it's the same for her, as well.

The two stumble into his bedroom moments later (something the TARDIS helps with) and there is nothing too eloquent, too soft about them. Ardence is lost just as clothing is shed, and he melts with her, wholly, entirely, completely.

He is drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

He can say the same for her, too.

And so here they are, lying in bed and tracing scars and sketching all the endings and beginnings to the stories they tell. They map out the stars on their skin and the stars in the sky, and for once, the universe is kind.

This is the Doctor and Rose Tyler, in the TARDIS, as it was before, and as it should be.

**F I N**

_or is it?_


	7. Chapter 7

**War Not Easily Won**

* * *

_( post-script; curtain call )_

They are healing.

For the most part, anyway.

There are days where words are left unsaid, and the only conversation between them comes in the form of their feet against the pavement, their hands intertwined, and a teenage boy in tow snapping pictures and shooting at aliens in the sky.

Other days, they live in the library, where they piece back years lost over a cup of tea. They would write down things they never knew about the other, recounting the stories of nations at war and of their own battles. But for the most part, they talk. Voices waver and hands shake, but they find that this way is better for them.

And sometimes, they have a nice vacation. The three of them, that is. The Doctor, Rose Tyler, and Toby.

Five years later, and nothing much has changed. Still saving the world, still discovering new ways to love and hate each other at the same time. There's nothing else to say about three people who devote their lives to traveling the universe and doing the things that, for some people, is only a dream.

**o0o0o**

It begins at the end, with Rose Tyler waking up in the middle of the night with sweat on her skin and tears in eyes. A scream is lost in her stirring, existing only in her desperate grip on the Doctor and the lines of blood down his limbs.

"Rose, _stop_," he tries to tell her, tries to pry her nails out of the half-moons imprinted on his arm. "_Rose._"

She is gasping like a fish out of water, screaming like her skin is being turned inside out. Panic is fervent in her eyes, closed tight around the color of amber and gold as chaos melts into something intense. Rose buries her face in her hands, sobbing something in a language that the Doctor thinks is oriental, but he can't be too sure.

"English, Rose," he says as he wraps his arms around her shaking body. She is thin underneath him, all taut and lean muscle and smooth skin. He thinks that if he holds her tighter, she'll disappear. "Gallifreyan or _something_. Something I can understand."

"We can't go," she whispers and she sobs, almost like a staccato caught in a riptide. She drifts away and comes towards him all at the same time, throwing her arms around his neck when she repeats, "We can't go."

"We're going nowhere, Rose, we're home. We're in our room," the Doctor tells her. He is slightly confused and slightly worried, but it doesn't matter much. Not right now. Not when she's coming apart in right front of him.

Then her eyes glow for a fraction of a second. He's not sure if he's lucid or if hallucinating, but they look like they were glowing gold and that can only mean a bad thing is coming their way.

She falls silent. Her grip on him slacks, and she presses her forehead against his. Tears are streaming down his face, too, as it is, and she lifts a hand to cradle his cheek. "Pain is too great. Let time take its course. We're not always heros, my Doctor."

"Okay," he says, his response tired and bewildered and relieved that she is almost back to normal. He swallows. "Okay," he repeats, setting her back down onto the bed.

"We can't go."

"We won't."

"We'll lose." She curls up against him. He pulls her in closer to offer her warmth.

"I promise we won't go."

Rose is already out like a light, and he thinks she didn't hear him.

It doesn't matter, though; he won't make good on that promise anytime soon.

**o0o0o**

"We call this epoch Holocene," the Doctor tells Rose and Toby as the shuffle through the busy streets of Manhattan. His hand is in hers, and as per usual, Toby is with his point-and-shoot camera, documenting their relatively normal travels on Earth. "The time of the human race. The great years of your kind. Holocene sounds rather poetic, doesn't it?"

"It sounds like the name of a song," Rose says nonchalantly, eyeing the sign that says Fifth Avenue and the street vendors selling late twenty first century curios. "Tell me again, Doctor. When are we?"

"The height of the twenty-second century, the summer of 2136 in the heart of the world's pride — America." The Doctor beams at Rose, who smiles back with curiosity. She wanders off to a street vendor, who seems to be manipulating "antique" electronic glasses and other eyewear. She flashes a smile to the old man selling them, and the Doctor, as always, looks on like she's a curio herself.

"Hey Doc," Toby says, focusing his camera on the alien. "Aren't we like a decade or so shy of World War Three? The 'Great and Terrible' war?"

"Well, everything that goes up must come down, Tobias," the Doctor says as if it was an obvious thing. "Humans love a good argument, after all."

"But it's so calm now, like nothing will ever be bad again. You look at these people walking and laughing and just living," the young man muses. "Next thing you know, shit hits the fan and everything just goes downhill real fast."

The Doctor stuffs his hands in his pockets and can only nod. Toby doesn't seem to notice.

"When I was a kid," Toby continues as he goes to stand by the Doctor, "I grew up with listening to war stories. Thousands of years into the future, and the tales never get any less horrendous. If anything, war and time are alike. They are continuous. They don't stop for anyone."

The city is loud, but it is silent between them.

"Have you ever fought, Toby?" the Doctor says after a moment.

"Drafted, yeah. Trained for war most of my life."

"What happened?" But the Doctor knows the answer already.

The young man clenches his jaw and holds his camera closer to him, like a soldier would a gun, like a mother would a child. His answer is terse and quiet and full of grit. So unlike the man, the Doctor notes, yet strangely like him at the same time.

"I met you."

The Doctor already knows that. He also knows the answer to the next question, but he asks it anyway.

"Would you have fought, though? If you hadn't met me?"

That hits hard. The Doctor can see it in his face, the way his eye twitches slightly and his breathing hitches.

Toby shifts back. "Would you blame me? I was the result of two agents of time and my nanny was a soldier with a gun slung over his shoulder. I could walk, talk, and shoot a man in the shin by the time I was five." His fingers find the shutter button, and he draws his camera toward his eye in one fluid motion.

"You would have, then," the Doctor says quietly.

"Fuck yeah," Toby whispers back, his voice hidden by a saddened laugh. "All my life led up to one moment. You got in the way though. I can't say thank you enough... you saved me, in a way, from a game not worth playing." He raises his camera and points it at Rose.

The Doctor sees a man raising a rifle; he has to remind himself that this is Toby before he reaches for him.

"You don't have to worry about me, Doctor," Toby says after awhile. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm only going to fight under two conditions. One, if you give me the okay."

"Understandable, and probably won't happen." The two chuckle at this, a lighthearted statement in the midst of an otherwise heavy conversation. Under no circumstance is the Doctor a commander, a war leader to be looked up to. He is not an executioner, and he will not allow the boy to be either.

Beside him, Toby clicks the capture button.

The Doctor narrows his eyes when he realizes that Toby has not completed his thought.

"What's the second one?"

Like all of his hesitant responses, Toby slowly draws out his words as if his life depended on it, "If you or Rose are in imminent danger, and neither of you can or want to fight it... that's when I'll make that decision for myself." His voice is low and soft and careful, like all things about him, really. He fidgets with his camera, acting as if he does not know what to do with it.

The Doctor would rebut this, saying that he and Rose are infinite beings (as close as it gets, anyway) and he and Rose know exactly what to do if and when the situation arises. He would say that their lives are no more than Toby's, and that a man as young as he is should not kill or be killed for old people like them. He would say that killing and fighting for the name of revenge is wrong and terrible, and that he would hate to see Toby's good soul tainted in his honor.

But before the Doctor could tell Toby this, the boy interrupts. Steadily, he says, "I know you think that is wrong, but it isn't, not really. The universe needs you both, and I'm not less important than you, Doctor, but the universe is more apt to need you more. As with Rose. And I don't want to see you in pain — neither of you. I've spent far too many nights fetching cold water for Rose's nightmares, and too many restless nights hearing your screams and cries. I don't want that to escalate, not if I can help it. So don't tell me not to do something I've already decided to do a long time ago. Cause it's too late to change my mind." Toby cracks a small grin, goofy and reassuring and altogether a good comfort. "I'll try to protect you two. I'm the soldier here, remember?"

The Doctor doesn't need protection, though, and if he did then it would not come in the form of a twenty-one year old born-and-raised assassin.

But the way Toby locks his jaw tells him that there is no changing his stance. And that if ever the situation arises, then Toby would have to be restrained in order to ensure that he does not become a weapon for the Doctor.

The alien looks up and searches for Rose among the sea of tourists and locals. She comes back around with a smile and new sunglasses to boot, a shout of _"M'boys!_" falling from her lips. She throws her arms around Toby and ruffles his hair lovingly, the young man protesting in grumbles and attempts to shrug the blonde off of him.

"Rose!" Toby whines, much like an eleven-year-old child would with his mother. "C'mon, off! You're ruining my hair!"

"Pretty boys and their hair," Rose scoffs, giving him a last ruffle on the top of his head. "The Doctor used to have floppy sex-hair like yours. No idea what happened with his regeneration." Tongue between teeth, she nudges the man in question in the ribs. "Eh, Doctor? Used to be fun to play with. Now it's all cropped and short."

"You used to love my hair when it was cropped and short," the Doctor says with a slight smile. He fakes a Northern accent when he adds, "Isn't that true, Rose Tyler?"

She pushes him playfully, laughing all the same.

Rose holds onto Toby and adjusts the lapels of his jacket and the scarf around his neck. The young man groans and tries to move out of her reach, but Rose is Rose and always catches him in the end. The Doctor watches on, loving the little family he has created without his knowledge. He looks ahead to the TARDIS, and he hopes to God or whatever is out there that the time may never come when he would have to choose between them or the universe.

Because he doesn't know what he would do. And that is more terrifying than anything he has ever come across in all his years.

* * *

**A/N:** Not an epilogue. It's a transition to the sequel ; ) Look out for it! It is called "Ground Zero" and I hope to have the first chapter out by April 30th! Thank you guys for your continued support, and please let me know what you think of this story. Leave a review — the more the merrier, and the more I get, the more inspiration I have to write! :)


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